


Catbird Seat

by cincoflex



Series: Casa Caliente [12]
Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Baseball, Dangerous Bugs, EVEN MORE SEX, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 18:06:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17228693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cincoflex/pseuds/cincoflex
Summary: Sara and Grissom deal with a baby, baseball, treehouses and dangerous bugs.





	1. Chapter 1

Casa Caliente 10: Catbird Seat

Chapter One

The solid ‘thunk’ of a well-thrown softball landed deep within the pocket of the worn leather glove and satisfied with the catch, Grissom quickly tugged it out and tossed it back. His lazy arc would have been over most people’s heads, but Warrick merely extended a long, lanky arm up over his head and snagged it.

“Yo, Grissom,” came the slightly exasperated comment, “I know YOU don’t have to concentrate on a strike zone, but it can’t be that hard just to return the ball.”

“You missed stretching in warm-ups, so I’m just making sure you get it in now,” came the slightly amused reply. Warrick didn’t roll his eyes but he came close to it as he shifted the ball and eyed home plate as if it had personally insulted him. Behind his left shoulder, Nick gave a whistle, and readjusted his baseball cap, grinning as Warrick turned to glare at him.

“Come on, man . . .” Nick urged, lounging with athletic ease, “You’re warmed up already, let’s get a batter up!”

“You’re breakin’ my concentration,” Warrick scowled, but he turned back to face the plate, where a cheerful Archie was already tapping the ground with the end of his bat, waiting. Warrick shot a glance to Sara, reassuring himself that she was alert, and wound up for his pitch.

It sailed across the plate, sweet and smooth; Archie swung hard but never touched it as the ball thumped into Grissom’s mitt.

“Okay Arch, choke up a little and don’t uppercut. Warrick’s sending them straight through,” Grissom muttered reassuringly. The tech nodded, then resettled himself over home plate as Grissom tossed the ball back. Warrick caught it easily and waited a moment to wind up again.

“Heybatterbatterbatterbatterbatter . . . “ Came the taunt from Catherine, Greg and Bobby around the field. Sara grinned and set her stance wider, her eyes locked on Archie’s bat.

Grinning but determined, Archie swung and the hard sweet clank of the aluminum bat meeting the ball rang out, only to clatter louder a moment later as he dropped it and charged for first. Sara watched and waited as Nick plucked it out of the air and fired it her way. She held out her glove, keeping one foot planted on the base, and the ball outsped Archie by nanoseconds.

“Better luck next time, AV man—” Sara smiled, tossing her catch back to Warrick. Good-naturedly, Archie took her spot on first as she rotated to shortstop. Nick shifted to second, Clem moved to third and Bobby left the last base to trot up to home. Confidently he picked up the bat and stood on the right side.

“Look sharp people, we’ve got a southpaw up!” Grissom yelled, settling his catcher’s mask back over his face and dropping into position. Bobby laughed, pointing his bat out to right field at Greg.

“Hey Bunsen Boy, got one with your name on it!” came his light taunt. In response, Greg hunched down, grinning and ready. The low ‘batterbatter’ chant began again, but Bobby ignored it; his hit was a low grounder, scooting up dust across the diamond before rumbling through the grass. Greg scooped it up and shot it to Archie, but Bobby was already on the base, a little winded and smiling.

“Gotta move faster, Greg,” Grissom chided him. Greg loped back to position, sighing. In right field, Hodges shot him a lofty look. The basemen moved again, and Clem came up to bat.

“Power hitter, guys. Move back and stay alert!” came the call from Grissom. Warrick grinned and wound up. The pitch was low; Clem held and behind her Grissom chuckled.

“Good eye. Don’t let Ecklie’s pitcher rush you. Matherson’s a good one but he works the head game. He may try to scare you with a few close ones, so don’t fall for them.”

Clem nodded, then set herself again. This time Warrick’s pitch connected with a gunshot crack of the bat, and the softball flew in a high, powerful arc that soared up and away. Clem ran. As she powered past Bobby, Archie and Sara, gunning for home, the outfield of Hodges, Catherine and Greg scrambled in a relay return of the ball. Clem thundered in as Grissom rose, peeling off his mask and holding a glove up; the ball smacked into it well after she’d crossed the base.

“Offensively, great play. Defensively, that sucked,” Grissom called out to the field at large, receiving a few laughs in response. Clem had her hands on her thighs as she tried to catch her breath, and Grissom waved everyone in for a moment for a quick conference. They gathered at home plate, and he looked them over.

Clem and Catherine were the only ones in shorts, Cat in a tattered denim pair matched up with a denim vest and sneakers. She wore sunglasses and a tolerant smile. Clem had cycling shorts of banana yellow topped by a U of WLV baseball jersey. Greg was in jeans and a revoltingly green tee shirt reading _DNA: it’s not just for breakfast anymore!_ Next to him, Bobby and Nick were nearly a matched set in grey sweatpants and black muscle tees, although Bobby’s cap proclaimed the merits of Kenworth trucks, and Nick’s was the standard LVPD cap. Archie was in jeans and a faded red sweat shirt, the sleeves cut off to reveal his muscled arms. Hodges looked slightly out of place in a black polo shirt and Dockers, Warrick lounged in jeans and a tee shirt, Yankees jersey billowing open and loose over that. And then there was Sara.

Oy.

Grissom tried not to let his gaze linger on her. She wore low cut faded jeans and blue FBI jersey shirt small enough to reveal the tight, taut muscles of her stomach; the saucy wink of her belly button taunted him to no end, and Sara sensed it. She dropped her hands on her hips and shot him a smile as he turned away.

“Okay listen up guys. We’ve got a good batting lineup right now, so I’m not worried about scoring. What we NEED to get down is the fielding—Ecklie’s crew has the edge on us because they’ve practiced more often, but we’ve worked as a team and we can read the play faster than they can.”

“It doesn’t hurt that Brass refused to coach them, either,” Catherine pointed out with a smug expression that brought answering ones all around. 

Warrick tossed the softball up and down as he spoke.  
“Yeah, and we know Ecklie couldn’t train his way through a paint-by-number, let alone his shift,” came the snort. Grissom said nothing, but shot Warrick a mildly disapproving look.

“It’s the truth, man—Ecklie has about as much athletic ability as a stop sign,” Nick pointed out. “If it wasn’t for the fact that Paul Dante and Susan Collates played sports in college, the day shift wouldn’t even BE a team.”

“Be that as it may, we’re here to play AND practice sportsmanship, so let’s can the negative comments and get some drills in. And have you guys decided on a name yet? I have to put in the order for shirts and hats by today. What are we—the Night Owls or the Coyotes?”

Catherine smiled and shook her head; stepping up she laid her hands on Grissom’s shoulders and looked up at him. “Neither. We’re the Scorpions because we all wanted to be arachnids in honor of you, Gil. We do our jobs, but get in our way or try and crush us and you’ll regret it, right?”

Grissom gave a shy, pleased smile all around and everyone gave it back; he cocked his head and pointed to the field.

“I’m touched, guys. So touched you only have to drill for the next thirty minutes instead of the next forty. Warrick, you, I and Nick are on a pitching rotation. Catherine, take Greg, Archie and Hodges out for some fielding. Bobby, you, Clem and Sara get your timing down on base throws. After that, come on back for the details of the first game and I’ll get sizes for shirts.”

Sara stretched, and was rewarded by Grissom’s clenched jaw as he turned away; she strode back to first base and took her position, smiling to herself.

*** *** ***

The day was beginning to fade, and the big park lights were starting to come on as practice came to an end. Greg and Bobby were busy collecting the equipment as Grissom peeled off his catcher’s mask for the last time and handed it over to them. His baseball cap was still on backwards, and Sara secretly thought he looked massively cute that way, more boyish than he’d been in a long time. In the bleachers, Catherine’s sister and Lindsey were waiting for practice to end, along with Greg’s mother Missy, and Wyatt. The toddler was clinging to one of the bleachers seats, bouncing on his little legs and yelling periodically, making the team out on the field smile every time he did.

“Okay. First game is against days next Saturday, five PM. We’re supplying the umpire. Show up at four to get your shirts and caps,” Grissom rumbled to them as they all began walking off the field. Greg, Sara and Catherine headed for the bleachers towards the waiting families while Nick and Warrick lugged the equipment to the back of the cars in the parking lot.  
Greg scooped up his son, who gurgled and wiggled, then reached for the baseball cap. Catherine laughed at that, and even Sara smiled.

“Hey, give me that back, manchild,” Greg mock-growled, tugging his cap free again and setting it on Wyatt’s head, covering up the wispy blonde hair. The toddler’s head nearly disappeared under it and immediately his chubby hands grabbed for the rim as Catherine rubbed his little back.

“Oh Wyatt, someday you’ll have the brains to fill that, just like Dad,” came her coo. Sara reached out to touch his little fingers; he grabbed them and immediately brought them to his mouth for chomping, but she wisely wiggled them free and rubbed his snub chin instead as Missy began to pick up the diaper bag.

“Almost his bath time, Greg—and yours," she added, making Catherine and Sara chuckle.

“Mommmm . . ." Greg began with no real rancor. She rolled her eyes for the benefit of the other women and reached for the fold-up stroller, but Sara got it first, set it up, then reached for Wyatt. He giggled at her, grabbing for her nose as she settled him in and did up the straps.

“He likes you more than me," Catherine pouted, crossing her arms. Lindsay was next to her, bouncing her head against her mother’s ribs impatiently.

Sara gave a shrug. “I’ve noticed he likes women in general.”

“Hey, like father, like son,” Greg pointed out with a flirtatious smirk, but his glance strayed out across the parking lot, where Clem was listening to something Grissom said to her and Bobby. Greg’s mother looped the diaper bag on his shoulder, bringing his attention back to matters at hand.  
“Come on, Greg, let’s go pop the two of you in a big soapy tub.”

“Oh now THERE’S an adorable image!” Catherine teased, and even Sara and Lindsay grinned. Greg blushed, but pulled his baseball cap on tighter, his grin firmly in place.

“I will get even with you, Mom. Someday, somehow, when you least expect it,” Came his threat through slightly clenched teeth as he began to push the stroller. Missy rolled her eyes and followed him out to the car, looking completely unfazed by her son’s warning. Sara looked at Catherine, who smiled back.

“Who’d have ever thought?” Catherine mused, a hint of true admiration in her eyes. 

Sara nodded. “Yeah—under the façade is one pretty good parent.”

They said their goodbyes, and as everyone else drove away, Sara wandered to where Grissom was down in the dugout checking over a clipboard. He didn’t look up as she leaned close to him, checking over his shoulder.

“I’m not speaking to you,” Grissom muttered in a low voice as he checked off a notation under Jacque’s name. Sara gave a mock-hurt look that was replaced quickly with a flash of a toothy grin.

“Grissom, it’s payback for the baseball cap. You KNOW what it does to me when you wear yours backwards.”

“Pretty much the same thing seeing your navel in public does to me, I assume,” he replied, trying to sound cool and collected. He didn’t quite, though, and Sara slid a hand up under the back of his shirt, skimming over big warm muscles as she pressed closer to him.

“You sweat clean, did you know that? Even when you’re all damp from a workout, your skin still smells great . . .” Sara told him in a throaty voice pitched only for his ears. Grissom drew in a breath and tried to pretend her words weren’t affecting him, but she felt his spine arch a little under her tickling fingers.

“Sara, don’t try and butter me up. You chose that shirt on purpose,” he accused, a little breathlessly as her fingers trailed up the trough of his spine. She tossed her hair back and nodded.

“Can I help it if my roommate shrank it in the wash? He’s a great guy, but a good percent of my wardrobe is now stuff I should be putting on doll hangers.”

“I said I was sorry,” he murmured resentfully, finally turning his head to look her in the eyes. The sweet chocolate heat in them made a surge of absolute male desire climb through Grissom; his gaze swept over her with definite possessiveness.

“It’s okay, it still fits—sort of," she reminded him, arching an eyebrow and grinning.

“Sara, I have something serious to ask you,” Grissom demanded, dropping the clipboard and pulling her into his arms. She slid into his embrace, her hips pressing hard against his before she corkscrewed them in a salacious move that made him grunt a little.

“Mmm—yeah?”

“Ever do it in a dugout?”

“Not yet . . .”

Heat and urgency left them both feeling slightly reckless, even so, Grissom managed to fish the keys out of his pocket and herd Sara into the equipment storage shed just off the side of the ball field. The little room was divided by a bench, but deliciously cool and wrapped in semi-darkness; Sara was aware of the smells of leather and canvas and cut grass filling the little room. Then Grissom pulled her into his arms and for a long time after that she lost track of anything other than his hungry mouth. He was definitely a master of the full-body kiss, his big hands keeping her plastered up against him in the shadows. Sara wriggled, looping one long leg around his hip to keep as much contact between them as possible as he devoured her.

It had been a while; ever since returning from Sheba, between work and more work, life at home had been a series of quick dinners and serious collapses into bed as exhaustion set in. While the solve rate had gone up during that time, both Sara and Grissom had found themselves doing little more than sleeping together in the utterly generic sense of the word. 

Sara savored the security, the domestic creature comfort of curling up with Grissom on a daily basis, but this evening, ever since seeing him at home plate in his serious coach mode complete with backward baseball cap she’d felt a surge of rekindled desire.  
Thank goodness she wasn’t alone in that, although to be fair she’d known perfectly well that her shrunken shirt would catch his eye and libido quickly. Any glimpse of her torso affected him; she knew that now from many little pounces throughout their days together. It was one of the little quirks that made it both fun and easy to taunt him, and a Sara relished the give and take of their private moments, recognizing it for the intimacy it was.

Grissom nuzzled her ear, laughing softly as his arms tightened around her. “You know baseball is one of the great American metaphors for sex,” he rumbled as his fingers slipped up the back of her shirt, reaching for the hooks of her bra.

Sara chuckled. She raised her arms, letting him slide both shirt and lingerie up and off of her slim body. The blackly exciting thrill of being half-dressed around Grissom made her sigh, and she swiftly caught his right hand, guiding it down the front of her jeans and into her panties, making him cup her soft fur there.

“Yeah, yeah—look, let’s just advance the runner to third okay?” she groaned, rubbing herself against him. Grissom tipped his head to suck on her earlobe and let the heel of his hand rub circles around the warm mound of her sex. Sara’s breathing deepened, and she licked Grissom’s neck. Automatically she shifted, spreading her legs, giving him more access. Her hands slipped under his shirt. 

Outside, the sprinklers went off, and the soft sound of crickets carried across the green.  
Sara gave a happy little groan and rocked her hips up against Grissom’s palm, giving into the flare up of animal heat running through her now. He stopped for a moment to unzip and tug her jeans down to mid-thigh, then brought his hand back and stroked her again, this time his fingers sliding between her thighs, raking the fluffy curls as he laughed in a low soft way.

“You look, and taste and FEEL so hot, Sara,” he groaned, his thick erection straining through his jeans as he ground it against her hip. She threw her head back and rode the building pleasure of Grissom’s greedy touch between her thighs.

“I AM,” came her slightly exasperated reply. “I want you, Grissom-- A LOT if you’re still clueless!”

“Oh no, I’m definitely in the ballpark,” he punned, shifting to lick her tense neck, his fingers sliding slickly now between her legs, his touch maddeningly soft and teasing. Sara shifted from one long leg to the other like a skittish mare, and Grissom let his teeth graze her sensitive skin as he spoke.

“If they could see you now, Sara,” came his low rough voice, “All your cool reserve gone now that your panties are around your knees. I like you all hot and bothered like this, honey. Nice to feel how MUCH you want me,” Grissom added as he slid his finger strokes along the hot, slick valley of her sex.

She clutched him, trying to grind herself harder against his hand but he kept pulling back, taunting her hunger.

“Grissom!” Sara panted, losing patience as her desire sharpened with every caress. 

He chuckled again. “Love you on the edge, Sara. Used to get the most intense erections thinking about what it would take to turn you on . . . how beautiful your pussy would be, how I’d love to play with it just . . . like . . . this--!”

Sara growled back, grabbing his hand with both of her own, and thrusting against it hard, her pulse racing at the feel of his wet palm with its perfect slippery pressure now, sliding up and down on her wet fur. Grissom’s teeth nipped harder under her ear, as he let her writhe against his hand, straddling his palm. He scraped the side of his damp face down her collarbone and the slope of her breast, his lips encircling a stiff nipple. Sara whimpered, rocking faster, and then—

Grissom suckled, hard.

Explosively Sara arched, her orgasm slamming so hard and fast she couldn’t breathe through the searing pleasure flaring in an almost atomic wave from between her legs and up her torso. She gasped, knees buckling from the intensity, but Grissom slipped his other arm around her waist, steadying her as her head lolled back.

“J-Jesus Grissom!” she hissed when she could speak, “Now THAT’S coaching!” He laughed, mouth against her cheekbone, holding her easily as she gradually recovered. One of her hands slid down the front of his jeans and stroked the stiff ridge there almost in an afterthought.

“Batter up,” she snorted, earning a strained groan from him. Grissom pulled away gently from her and drew in a breath, his big chest expanding when he did so.

“Sara—” came his voice; soft, but a tone of utter command. She looked into his eyes and found them dark with desire as he took her two hands in his. Deliberately he planted them on his tented bulge.

“Take me out.”

His voice sent shivers through her, and reaching down, Sara quickly undid the rivet buttons, her slender fingers popping them open and peeling down the denim to mid-thigh. Grissom let his hands stroke her bare arms; when his cock was free he slid his fingers to hers and cupped them around his turgid shaft, letting her caress the heavy heat of it.

“Hands and knees on the bench, honey,” he crooned. Sara glanced over her shoulder at the narrow aluminum bench, her jaw dropping a little.

“It’s not wide enough,” came her practical protest. Grissom spun her and gave a light shove, putting her off-balance; Sara toppled forward, catching herself on the cool metal. Grissom stepped forward and yanked on her jeans, bringing them down to her shins, and Sara swallowed when she felt him step up behind her, his denim-covered thighs pressing on her bare ones.

Grissom’s hands stroked her bare ass.  
“Squeeze play, Sara. I love the way you look right now with your jeans around your calves and your sweet naked ass in the air. And I want to screw you right into next Tuesday.” So saying he leaned forward, his eager cock sliding in a tease along the underside of her cleft. She arched her spine, still slickly sensitive as his cock rubbed her intimately, and Grissom reached one hand to the small of her back, pressing the span of his palm and fingers across it as his other hand guided his aching shaft forward between the folds of wet, plump sex.

He rocked his hips forward, deeply burying himself in her with a groan of satisfaction. Sara let out a soft wail, caught between pleasure and surprise at the heft of his prick in all its demanding arrogance. Her fingers tightened around the bench and she looked over her shoulder at him, eyes challenging. Grissom’s hands pressed down on the small of her back as he pulled back a bit.

“Ssara,” came his pleasured grunt. Grissom thrust again, beginning a relentless rhythm so powerful that Sara had to cling tightly to the bench in order not to be knocked off her feet. He was so strong, so powerful and hungry for her; the sweet wet sounds of his strokes counterbalanced his ragged breathing.

“Oh God honey, you have the most beautiful ass, a PERFECT ass, Sara . . .” Grissom growled. She could see a drop of sweat rolling down the side of his face, hot lust tinting his normally calm expression as he rocked into her, his hands pressing hard on the back of her hips. 

Sara gave in to her own urges and thrust back to meet each stroke, tensing her thighs and muscles to make him growl with pleasure. But long minutes later, Grissom finally gasped, and with a staccato of thrusts Sara felt the surge of boiling heat deliciously deep within her as he collapsed along her spine, wrapping around her as she giggled.

“Ohhhh,” came his grateful groan, “Bases loaded bottom of the ninth—honey, sliding into home never felt so amazing in my whole life!”

To emphasize it, Grissom proceeded to noisily kiss each knob of her naked spine. Sara squirmed a little; Grissom wasn’t light, even if she was holding onto the bench.

“Ooooh!” She complained but mildly; Grissom slowly shifted off of her, carefully pulling her upright and into his arms. He kissed her mouth again, a slow sweet kiss of sated passion and delight, and Sara gave back as good as she got in that long soft moment as they stood there, half-dressed and intertwined in the darkness.

*** *** ***

When the cell phone rang Sara stared at the number displayed on the screen. She was alone in the living room at the moment since Grissom was putting up shelves in the garage; a job that Figaro felt he needed to monitor closely from the top of the dryer. Sara waited a second, then flicked the phone on.

“Greg? It’s Saturday. Two A.M.” she felt compelled to remind her coworker.

His voice came back, dry and so monotone she wasn’t sure it was really him. “I know Sara. And believe me I wouldn’t call unless I absolutely had to, but right now you’re my last resort. I’m in trouble here, seriously, and I need a favor,” he told her. In the background she could hear something bleeping and her anxiety level went up. 

Rising, Sara carried the phone with her as she walked to the garage. “Greg are you okay?”

“Um. No, not really. My mom’s in ICU right now. She got run over by a car six hours ago, and I’ve been waiting to see if she’s going to stabilize,” came his flat monotone again. Sara stumbled as she crossed the doorway of the garage, reaching to tug Grissom’s sweatshirt with urgent little yanks. He looked up, saw her expression and set the measuring tape down, his eyes on the cell phone.

“What happened to your mom Greg? How can I help?” Sara demanded, shooting Grissom a grave look. He stood closer, moving to try and hear the answer alongside her.

“Sondra,” came the tired, bitter reply. “She’s in custody for reckless driving and assault with a vehicle. I’ve been talking to the police all night here at the hospital. She tried to run my mom down and grab Wyatt outside our house. The bitch took our car door off with her bumper, Sara! My mom’s got a dislocated hip and a broken leg, and a pretty serious concussion—”

Greg’s slightly hoarse voice started to break; the strain in it was obvious. Sara gripped the phone more tightly, but it was Grissom who spoke up.

“Greg, we’ll be right there—where’s Wyatt?”

The awful question hung in the air, and Sara bit her lips hard. Then a soft laugh came over the connection.

“Grissom. Don’t know why I should be surprised, huh? He’s here and he’s okay, thanks. A little cranky for being so off his schedule, and he’s actually the reason I called. I need Sara to take him. My uncle’s coming in from Minnesota but he won’t get here until tomorrow afternoon. Right now I don’t have anybody else to cut me a break and keep him safe. The police are telling me I need to find him an anonymous location because Sondra had help.”

Grissom shot Sara a questioning look; she threw him a pleading one back and in that unspoken moment the matter was settled.  
“We’ll take him,” Grissom reassured his lab tech in a steady voice. A soft sound; half sigh, half sob came back.

“Thanks guys. We’re at Desert Palms, up on the second floor, and I’ve got most of his stuff in the car, including his seat. I . . .Thanks, man.”


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

In the dead hours of the early morning, Desert Palms hospital was fairly quiet; Grissom had no trouble finding a parking space close to the front. He and Sara made their way up to the second floor easily. The muted sounds of monitors, intercoms and elevators were softer at night; when they stepped onto the second floor waiting area they saw Greg slumped on one of the sofas, arm over his eyes.

Quietly Grissom walked over as Sara dropped her focus on the stroller, where Wyatt was sound asleep, snoring a little wheezily. She squatted down and managed a crooked smile at the toddler, then looked over to Greg and Grissom.

“—Yeah, Brass left a while ago. Normally assault’s not his jurisdiction, but they’re calling it attempted murder, so he stepped in,” Greg was sitting up now, staring at his hands dangling between his knees, looking gaunt. “I appreciate it. He’s a good guy.”

“Yeah,” Grissom agreed softly. A nurse passing by dropped a hand on Greg’s shoulder in a quick gesture of affection, and Greg flashed a bleak smile up at her before she walked away. Grissom raised an eyebrow and sat down next to him.

“My mom used to work here, so a lot of folks know her. They’re giving her the best right of everything.”

“Have you spoken to the doctors?”

Sara picked up a pacifier from the floor and looked around for a drinking fountain. There weren’t any, so she stuck it in her pocket.

“Yeah. They’re hanging onto her for a couple of days—it all depends on how the concussion goes. They’re pretty optimistic, but it’s going to take some time.” Greg hesitated a moment and added, “Did you know Nick processed the scene?”

Grissom nodded. “He was backup for the weekend. It’s in good hands.”

“Some of the best,” Greg admitted before rubbing his eyes again. “So—Sara’s taking my son for a while, right?”

“We both are,” Grissom admitted lightly, trying not to grow red under Greg’s delighted scrutiny. 

The young tech shook his head in a chiding fashion, his smirk wide. “Finally stopped chasing Sara long enough to let her catch you, huh?”

“Greg—” Grissom began, slightly annoyed and then stopped, not sure of what to say. Greg flashed him a humorous grin, so full of his old good nature that it was impossible not to smile back.

“Well you know how it is with us science studs—if I had to lose her, I’m glad it was to the only guy around here better than me,” came the tease. Grissom harrumphed a little at that, but Greg only laughed and picked up the diaper bag at his feet.

“Okay, round ‘em up—Sara, Grissom, let me lay down the amazing schedule and complicated life of Wyatt Peter Sanders.”

*** *** ***

“Living room?”

“It’s the only place big enough besides the porch or back yard for it, so yeah. We can move one of the sofas back a little to make room. Can you set it up?” Sara asked a little breathlessly. She had Wyatt on one hip and the diaper bag on the other; the toddler was looking up at her with big amazed eyes, one tiny fist in his mouth. Grissom dutifully unlocked the front door and lugged the folded playpen in. He carried it to the living room and pushed the coffee table out of the way. Sara followed him into the house and set the diaper bag down.

“Okay, soooo this is our house, which is going to be yours too for a while,” she told the baby boy. He kept his gaze on her and she gave a little sigh.

“I don’t think he needs the grand tour, Sara. He IS only fourteen months old you know,” Grissom shot over his shoulder in amusement. She made a face at him and shifted the boy around, moving to undo his jacket.

“Talking to him is soothing, okay? I know he’s not getting every word, but I think he needs to get used to the sound of our voices, and besides, it’s helping me get organized.” As she spoke, Sara managed to peel his little jacket and cap off; Wyatt wriggled a little, clearly delighted to be free of the constraint. Sara set him down in front of one of the sofas; immediately Wyatt put his hands on it and stood up, swaying a little, surveying the new landscape. Grissom clicked the bars of the playpen down and stood back, satisfied.

“The pad’s a little thin. Can we use your mom’s afghan in it?” he asked Sara, who smiled at him and nodded. Grissom pulled it off the back of the sofa and carefully dropped it into the playpen, working it neatly around until it covered the bottom nicely. Wyatt crawled his way down the side of the sofa, then toddled over to the pen and clutched at the netting with his little fingers.

He crowed, “Maba!”

“Maba?” Grissom asked. Wyatt looked alllll the way up at Grissom and blinked. The baby pulled himself up to his feet and bounced a little, flexing his knees and smiling again.  
“Mmmmmmaba!”

“Sara?” Turning to her, Grissom’s brows went up.

She shrugged back. “Sorry, baby linguistics aren’t my area. Could be ‘my bed’, ‘my bottle’, ‘my mama’—your guess is as good as mine, Grissom.”

“Let’s take him though the hierarchy of needs. Is he wet?”

Sara fought not to smile. “Fine--You check.”

Grissom hesitated, then sat down on the living room carpet next to Wyatt. The baby regarded him for a moment, then clumsily walked over to him, little hands outstretched. Grissom flinched as one swipe sent his glasses tumbling. Wyatt patted the beard, utterly enthralled by it.

Again.

“Okay, yes it’s a beard, Wyatt,” Grissom muttered, fishing for his glasses with one hand while trying to unbuckle one of the shoulder straps of the baby overalls the child wore.

Wyatt burbled. “B-b-b-b-b-b-bb-maba!”

Sara watched as Grissom put his glasses back on, shifted Wyatt and peeked down the back of his overalls.

“Odor?”

“Clean, so far. So Maba is not ‘I’m wet.’ Let’s try setting him in the playpen.”

Grissom stood, and picked Wyatt up gingerly, holding him out in his big hands and staring at the baby. Wyatt kicked, clearly delighted to be suspended in space, but Sara made a little noise of protest.

“Grissom! Bring him in closer—you’re holding him like he’s some noxious piece of evidence!”

Uncomfortably, Grissom did as commanded; immediately Wyatt began patting his beard again and Sara snorted.

“He is SO into your facial fur, babe. I bet he’d love Doc Robbins too.”

“Ow,” came Grissom’s grunt as little fingers tugged. He carefully reached one hand up to detach his face from Wyatt’s grasp, and turned to lower the baby in to the playpen. Wyatt looked around the pen and his lower lip began to quiver; seeing the warning signs, Sara quickly opened the diaper bag and fished out a bottle.

“Here—”

Grissom lowered the juice bottle to down to Wyatt’s hands and the baby sighed. He flopped down, sucking away happily, and Sara came around to the sofa, sitting to watch. Grissom sat next to her, blinking a little before checking his watch.

“It’s almost three-thirty, Sara. If you’d like to take a nap, now would be the time.”

“Let me finish unpacking those bags from the back of the car then, I’ll do that. Grissom . . .” her voice trailed off uncertainly. He looked up at her. “Are you sure you know how to change a diaper?”

“Sara. I process crime scenes for a living. I’m more than capable of dealing with urine and feces.”

“Yeah, well you say that NOW,” she muttered, stepping out the front door. When Grissom turned back to look at Wyatt, the baby had rolled over and was on his hands and knees looking through the mesh at—

\--A bewildered Figaro. The cat cautiously padded over to the mesh and stuck his nose to it, whiskers twitching. Wyatt lunged, but the mesh held him back. Figaro jumped back, then stopped to wash his face, as if exposure to the baby had somehow contaminated him. Grissom watch in fascination as Wyatt pressed his little face on the mesh, trying to reach the cat.

“M-m-m-m-m-m-m—“ he growled insistently, tiny fingers weaving through the nylon. Figaro gave him a haughty look and jumped up on the sofa next to Grissom. Wyatt watched the leap in fascination, his big brown eyes blinking. Sara brought in two handfuls of grocery bags and hauled them to the kitchen. She called out through the archway.

“You MIGHT want to unpack some stuffed animals and toys, Grissom.”

Grissom reached in the diaper bag and fished out plastic keys on a ring, a squeaky duck, a cotton rabbit and a disk with buttons and lights. Fascinated, he set them into the playpen, and Wyatt ignored them all, trying to grab Grissom’s arm. Reluctantly he tried to peel little fingers off his sleeve, but Wyatt began to chuff in a pre-cry build up that even Grissom could recognize. Giving in, he picked the boy up and carried him to the sofa, sitting with the baby on his lap.

Wyatt reached for the glasses and beard once again.

“He’s persistent, I’ll give him that,” Grissom muttered as Sara came out with a box of zwieback toast. She handed a piece to Grissom, who absently bit on it and winced; Sara glared.

“That, bright man, is for the baby.”

“This is stale, Sara. What child in his right mind wants to eat something this dry and tasteless?” Grissom complained, making her laugh.

Carefully she fished the toast from him and handed it to Wyatt, who promptly threw it at her.

“Hey!”

“I rest my case,” Grissom pointed out, his eyes twinkling. Wyatt seemed to think it was funny as well; he rocked a little and broke into a broad grin, showing four big teeth. Sara picked up the flung toast and stared at it.

“Okay, so it does seem pretty . . . nasty, in an oversized crouton sort of way . . . but you heard Greg. The kid’s a chewer. What have we got?”

“Hang on,” Grissom handed Wyatt over to Sara and headed into the kitchen. Wyatt reached for Sara’s hair, his little fingers surprisingly gentle as he tugged on a curl and tried to bring it to his mouth.

“Hey short stuff—that’s not edible,” Sara protested softly, stroking the baby’s back and hefting him to one hip. Wyatt molded to her easily, and Sara stepped into the kitchen to find Grissom opening one of the utensil drawers. He held up a large round cork and handed it to her. Sara stared, slightly appalled.  
“Grissom—this is a sink plug!”

“Sara, it’s made of rubber, so it’s nontoxic, it’s too large for him to get completely into his mouth, and it’s washable.”

She shot him a look, the slow skeptical one that Grissom knew so well; where faith and cynicism were warring inside. Slowly, Sara handed the plug to Wyatt.

He took it in his baby hands, grabbing it eagerly, shoving it in his face without even looking at it. His baby teeth against the rubber made a soft little squeaky sound, and Wyatt laughed, a genuine baby burble of absolute delight.

Sara said nothing, sailing out of the kitchen, leaving Grissom to grin in triumph.

*** *** ***

The soft knock on the front door roused Sara, who made her way to answer it, peering through the window to check on the visitor. A rush of concern and warmth hit her stomach at the same time when she recognized Jim Brass standing uncomfortably on the porch. She pulled open the door and checked her watch: a little after seven.

“Hey Sara. Just thought I stop by before heading in and check on the little guy.”

“Uh, yeah, great. Come on in . . .” she blurted, waving an arm at the living room. Brass stepped in, giving the room a once over, his smile soft. His focus ended on the playpen where an exhausted Wyatt lay on his side, slumbering away. Leaning over the pen, Brass touched the boy’s sock-covered foot gently.  
“Looks like you have a quiet Wyatt for the moment.”

“Yeah, he’s been out for about an hour. So—what’s going on?” Sara asked, coming to join him at the playpen.

Brass sighed and turned to face her. “Greg’s ex is schizophrenic, at least that’s the initial diagnosis from the psychiatric evaluation team. We questioned her, briefly, but she couldn’t get through even the most basic answers, so for the time being she’s being held for observation and treatment over at St. Luke’s. From Greg and a few other eyewitness accounts we know Sondra had an accomplice in the car, who took off on foot after the assault so we’ve got an APB out. Until we find the guy we’ve got Greg’s house under watch. Other than that . . ."

Sara frowned, brushing a stray strand of hair back behind one ear. Brass looked around again, smiling. “Nice place. I can see touches of both of you around here.”

“Thanks—you’re the first person to visit. Want some coffee?” she offered gently. Brass shot a look back at Wyatt and nodded.

When Grissom came out ten minutes later he found them in the living room talking softly. Brass looked up, his expression mild but a wicked twinkle in his eyes.

“Ah, the significant other. You crazy kids with your modern, cohabitating ways—so when are you getting hitched?”

“He hasn’t even proposed yet,” Sara replied, looking away to hide her grin as Grissom growled a little.

“Three months to go,” he peevishly admitted. “I have a statute of limitations imposed by Sara’s father and I’m honor-bound to stand by it.”

“Ah,” Brass nodded in sympathy. Grissom would have said more, but Sara rose, patted his cheek and yawned a little.

“I’m off to pick up the dry cleaning and some supplies.”

“And I’ve got to get a few hours of sleep in before court late this afternoon,” Brass sighed, rising off the sofa. Grissom cast a wary glance at the still-sleeping Wyatt, who was clutching the stuffed rabbit by the throat.

Brass followed his glance and grinned. “So, how many diapers have you changed on him, Gil?”

“None so far, but I’m well aware that those hours are numbered,” came the wry reply. 

Brass’s grin widened and he followed Sara out, leaving Grissom to settle down on the sofa with a copy of Moth Hunting in the American Southwest.

For a while things were relatively peaceful. Figaro curled up next to Grissom, dropping off into a tight cat ball of sleeping fur. Twenty minutes passed, and Grissom dozed a bit himself, dreaming of moths before a loud cry roused him. Blearily he looked over at the play pen, where Wyatt stood swaying a little, fingers gripping the mesh, teary-eyed.

“Oh-kay,” Creakily Grissom got up and fished Wyatt out, realizing a moment too late that the toddler’s overalls were saturated, pungent and leaking. Wyatt didn’t help by sinking his fingers into Grissom’s beard again.

Desperately, Grissom glanced around and spotted the diaper bag with relief. He carefully set Wyatt down on the coffee table and pulled the bag up and open, fishing into it with one hand as he gripped the baby’s waist with the other.

“Diaper, diaper—got it. What else? Isn’t there supposed to be powder?” he grumbled. Carefully he laid Wyatt down; the baby fretfully complied as Figaro slunk away. Wincing, fervently wishing he had latex gloves on, Grissom gingerly unsnapped the bottom of the overalls and peeled them off to reveal a swollen diaper, fully expanded and reeking of everything Wyatt Sanders had ingested in the last few hours.

“Ohhh, Wyatt. You saved this all up until Sara was gone, didn’t you?” he accused the little boy. The toddler said nothing, waving his arms slightly and Grissom sighed. He fished out the wipes, drew in a deep breath, and got to work.  
It wasn’t as bad as he thought, actually. The odor was noxious, and the actual cleaning wasn’t fun, but philosophically Grissom realized that years of exposure to decomp had sort of inured him to mere diaper changing. 

He’d managed to wipe down Wyatt’s posterior fairly quickly, and set the clean diaper under it when a soft spatter made him glance down and true annoyance set in.

The stream died down, but not before wetting Grissom’s shirt, part of the sofa and the carpet. Wyatt grinned, pleased with himself.

“Nice aim,” came Grissom’s deadpan observation. With a sigh, he stared at the tape tabs on the sides of the diaper, wondering exactly how they worked. As he tugged them, Wyatt began to wriggle, and Grissom found his hands full as the baby slithered away, rolling to the edge of the table and standing triumphantly, gloriously naked from the waist down.

“Get back here kid!”

But Wyatt toddled off with surprising speed, his little bottom bouncing as he headed towards the kitchen. Muttering an oath under his breath, Grissom got up and followed quickly. He scooped Wyatt up, making the baby squawk in protest, and brought him back out through the kitchen arch just as Sara walked into the house, wrinkling her nose.

“Need air freshener. You are SO lucky I added that to my shopping list—um, Grissom? Why is Wyatt--?” she asked, trying not to laugh at his semi-nude little bottom sitting on the shelf of Grissom’s hands as he held the boy to his shoulder.

“--Streaking? A case of heredity over environment would be MY guess.”

“Reaaaally? So you suspect Greg does a lot of streaking?”

The sour look Grissom shot her was priceless; Sara took squirmy pant-less Wyatt and carried him back to the coffee table as Grissom went to change his own shirt in the bedroom. When he returned, Wyatt was decent again in a fresh diaper and new overalls, and toddling in a clumsy run from chair to sofa to bookcase to fireplace in a happy busy ramble. Sara hovered like a hawk, poised to snatch him from danger.  
“Jeez, this is harder than playing first base—Wyatt, no honey—Grissom, would you take the fireplace tools out to the garage?” She called, gently peeling the poker out of the baby’s grasping hands. Grissom shifted them and then pushed the playpen forward so that one side of it rested against the glass fireplace screen, blocking the toddler’s chance of opening it.

“I think we need a baby gate,” Grissom sighed as Wyatt tottered around the end of the sofa and looked eagerly towards the kitchen. Sara nodded, scooping the boy up and kissing his neck; immediately Wyatt laughed, little hands flailing. Grissom took that moment to carry the fireplace tools out and when he came back Sara and Wyatt were on the carpet playing tug of war with the stuffed bunny.

“Mine!” Sara teased. Wyatt held on to one grimy foot of his favorite toy and shook it excitedly.

“Awa!” he yelled “Ammmmm!”

“That’s telling her,” Grissom encouraged him. When Sara glared up at him he tried not to smile; when she was annoyed she was adorable.

“Don’t you have an errand to run at the Tangiers?”

“Yes I do. Let me round up my documentation. I’ll be back soon and give you a break, all right?”

Sara’s expression softened, and she resumed tugging on the rabbit. Wyatt squealed and gave a hard yank, pulling it from her grasp completely. He landed on his well-padded butt, the fuzzy bunny in his face.

“To the victor go the spoils,” Grissom enthused for a moment, then turned away before Sara threw something at him.

*** *** ***

“May I help you?” The tall man in the well-cut suit asked as Grissom stood waiting at the information counter. He turned and briefly eyed the man’s badge, then smiled up at him.

“Yes you may, Mr. Tranagi. My name is Gil Grissom and I’m here to discuss the matter of box 1530 with whoever’s in charge of security here at the casino.”

The floor manager looked down at the cat carrier skeptically; Grissom said nothing, keeping his pleasant expression until Tranagi sighed and motioned for him to follow. They strode down a hallway just off to the left of the main entrance, a hallway with unmarked doors. At the end of it was a steel door with a card key system. Tranagi pulled a card and ran it through; the door opened on smooth hinges.

Inside was a wall of safe deposit boxes behind a plexi-glass wall with a metal detector doorway. In front of the glass wall was a small table with a computer, printer, and a few chairs. Grissom carefully set the cat carrier down on the table as Figaro meowed nervously. Tranagi smiled at the sound.  
“Wait here.”

Grissom did. He slid a finger through the wire grid in the front of the cat carrier and Figaro brushed against it, glad of the reassurance. After a few long minutes, Tranagi returned with a long cool redheaded woman in black. She eyed the carrier but said nothing.

“Mr. Grissom, this is Miss Verity Lamb and she’s in charge of the vault room.”

They extended hands and shook formally; Miss Lamb managed a frosty smile as Grissom handed her his driver’s license. She scanned it on the computer then handed it back. Tranagi left.

“So you’re here on the matter of box 1530. How intriguing; the lease for that one’s been going since 1956.”

Grissom blinked a little, but nodded. He held out a folder to Miss Lamb who thumbed through it. “I don’t understand . . . a rabies certificate? A feline leukemia inoculation?”

“Those are the records of F. Grissom, whom I brought with me for verification. The F stands for Figaro. Apparently when your computer system did a database search for the most current address on F. H. Grissom it found his in the local government one.”

Miss Lamb frowned a little, peering first at the papers and then at the cat carrier. She moved to the computer and hit a few keys; a scrolling screen went by and she sighed.

“Oh dear. Yes, it seems the address listed by the original F. H. Grissom was 10867 Caliente Way, which is a match to your cat’s address here on the veterinarian’s filing.”

Grissom looked at her, and she gave a little frown as she added, “I don’t believe in coincidence though. Call it the consequence of working in a casino. What is YOUR connection to box 1530?”

He nodded to the folder still in her hand and Miss Lamb flipped past Figaro’s documentation to find a birth certificate, a tax return and a death certificate neatly notarized. She nodded, satisfied.

“So you’re the box holder’s son, of course. Thank you for the proper paperwork. Well, as our letter laid out, Mr. Grissom, you have the option of closing out the account and clearing the box, or keeping the lease going if you wish.”

“Before I make that decision, I’d like to examine the contents,” He smoothly replied. As if expecting this, Miss Lamb nodded again, clicking on the keyboard again and holding out an electronic thumb pad. Grissom dutifully pressed his right thumb into it and the computer uttered a series of tones. Miss Lamb handed him a thin black keycard with the logo of the Tangiers on it.

“You’re free to go through the detector and examine the contents of your box; however,” she finally smiled again, “I’m afraid F. Grissom must stay here. The buzzer near the door is to let me know when you’re through.” She gave a nod, excusing herself.

Grissom frowned but nodded, taking a moment to muttered to Figaro, “Be patient.” He waited until Miss Lamb had left the vault room, then walked through the doorway in the plexi-glass and moved down the wall of boxes. 1530 was higher up, nearly at shoulder level. Grissom slid his card into the slot and the small light on the door went green; he pulled it open, then tugged on the handle behind it. Immediately a long flat box slid out and into his waiting hands.

Carefully, Grissom pulled out one of the hip-level shelves and set the box down, surprised to find his palms slightly clammy. He forced himself to take a breath. It had been well and good to collect the documentation for this moment; an exercise in detection, but the sudden flood of emotion stunned him. 

Grissom felt anger and hope, dread and delight. Gripping the box edges tightly, he took another deep breath, then gently lifted the lid.

Papers were the first thing on top. A tiny bundle, tied in a frayed green ribbon, the paper old and slightly brittle. Curiously, Grissom undid the flat bow top open the packet and found himself staring at three photos. One was of a baby in a hospital blanket, sleeping; he flipped it over and saw lacy handwriting, unfamiliar to him.

_Nuestro hijo._

His chest panged as he realized it was a photo of Truman. The next one had a dark-haired girl in white satin linked arm in arm with a young, lanky Howard Grissom. The girl looked happy; Howard was looking away from the camera with a twisted smile. On the back was a single brief notation:  
_Nuestra boda, de abril el 9._

Grissom closed his eyes for a moment, then made himself glance at the last one: it showed a barren little grave with paper flowers on it, and a wooden cross draped with lace.  
_Nuestra hija preciosa Guadalupe, ahora con el Dios._

He stared stupidly at it for a long time, and finally set the packet aside, mind slightly numb. His hands reached into the box and pulled out a yellowing folder; flipping it open Grissom found himself staring at an ornate deed for what appeared to be a silver mine. 

The gold-embossed seals and fancy engraving indicated that the Valhalla-Seaton mine of Purgatory, Nevada was the sole property of Howard Forbes Grissom as of July, 1962.

Grissom studied it for a moment, then shook his head and gently laid it on the photos, glad to obscure them from sight for a moment. He reached deeper into the slender box and found himself touching the velvet edge of a jewel case. Pulling it out, Grissom opened it and drew in a startled breath.

The sparkling ruby heart pendant caught the sterile light of the vault room and seemed to glow. He picked up the necklace from its box, admiring the dime-sized stone and the thin gold chain it hung from; an impossible delicate thread of great craftsmanship. The velvet case held no papers or labels of any kind.

Grissom peered into the box, but there seemed to be nothing else in it until he tipped it forward, and a single sheet of paper slid forward from the dark recesses. It was a three-page letter typed from a manual typewriter in phonetic Chinese and dated 1959; although Grissom had no idea of the content, it was addressed to Mr. H. F. Grissom and signed at the bottom, Zing Fu Cho.

He looked down at the odd collection in front of him, feeling an odd sense of puzzle pieces without edges as questions flooded his mind. Nothing seemed to fit with anything else, and thinking hard, Grissom lightly touched each piece again. Distantly Figaro meowed; that little plaintive sound broke the spell, bringing Grissom to a quick decision. Scooping up the contents, he pocketed the jewel case and tucked the papers into his inside jacket pocket, then stepped to the buzzer, pressing it hard.

Miss Lamb came through the door again, her mild expression waiting for his decision. Lightly he shook his head. “I’ve decided NOT to keep the lease on the box, Miss Lamb.”

She moved to the computer and tapped a few keys; a paper slid out of the printer next to it. “Certainly, Mr. Grissom. We’ve appreciated your family’s business for the past forty-eight years and wish you the best. If you’ll sign here, we can close out your account for box 1530.”

Within a few minutes, Grissom and Figaro were back in the Denali in the parking garage. Grissom got behind the wheel but didn’t start the car. Instead, he opened the carrier and took Figaro out, gently stroking the cat, scratching him softly behind the ears. Figaro relaxed into the caresses, purring a little as Grissom sighed.

“Evidence, Fig. I’ve got six pieces of that that don’t make any sense. They’re the answers—now I need to find the questions.”


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

When Grissom walked in, the first thing he noticed was the absolute quiet. He released a grateful Figaro and checked the living room. The playpen was empty. A little concerned, he looked in the kitchen and then moved down the hall to the bedroom, stopping at the doorway to catch his breath.

Sara and Wyatt lay asleep on the bed. Sara was curved protectively around Wyatt, one arm anchored across his little back as he lay sacked out, one little sock half-off. Grissom smiled down at them, and then gently picked the sleeping baby up. Carefully he carried him out to the playpen, settling him down on the afghan; Wyatt whimpered and rolled over, sinking back into deep slumber. Grissom waited a moment, then headed back to the bedroom, slipping his shoes off and climbing onto the mattress. Sara rolled towards him, hand reaching for him even in her sleep, and Grissom smiled, letting her arm rest heavily across his chest as she pressed to his side.

 

“Shhhh,” he murmured gently. “Wyatt’s in the playpen. Let’s sleep while we can.”

“Kid’s a Energizer bunny, Grissom—I am SO not ready . . .” Sara mumbled into his armpit. He made a soft noise of agreement and they drifted off themselves.

The sound of giggles woke Grissom two hours later; blearily he checked his watch as he listened to Wyatt playing with the electronic disc toy in the other room. Little bleeps and squeals echoed down the hall. He rolled to his side and Sara obligingly snuggled up against his chest, her ass pressing against him. He savored the sensation for a moment since Sara was clad in her tee shirt and panties, and nuzzled her hair, getting a soft growl in return.

“I know what YOU want.”

“I have a semi-naked you rubbing against me—I think I’m justified in wanting it, Sara.” As he spoke, Grissom slipped his big warm hand up under her shirt to cup her breast; Sara moaned a little.

“We can’t, Grissom, we’ve got company in the other room,” came her soft protest even as her nipple rose under his caressing fingertips. A soft rock of her hips, and Sara’s squirm became a concentrated caress against a part of Grissom that was very happy to receive it. He gave a pleased grunt, thrusting back against her with enthusiasm.

“Company is busy, so I vote that we entertain ourselves.”

“Oh is that way you vote? Who gave you majority in this bed anyway, Gil Grissom? I believe this is a co-operative venture.”

“So cooperate with me,” he pleaded gently, but at that point Wyatt began to wail, and with sighs, both Sara and Grissom climbed out of bed.

“Hungry. I bet he’s hungry,” Sara guessed, tugging on a pair of jeans and stepping into sandals. Grissom gave a grunt of agreement and wearily followed her out to the living room. At the sight of them, Wyatt stopped for a moment, bewildered. Sara scooped him up and looked around.

“We don’t have a high chair, Grissom. One of us will have to hold him, and the other one feed him.”

“I’ll hold him—I prefer to be out of the line of fire,” he predicted cheerily. Sara made a face and stepped into the kitchen with Wyatt, showing him jar after jar sitting on the counter.

“Peas, diced carrots, Vienna sausages, ugh! Um peach chunks, that sounds pretty good.”

“All of them,” came Grissom’s suggestion. “He’ll let us know what tastes best.”

Ten minutes later, Wyatt was happily settled on Grissom’s lap chewing on a Vienna sausage in one little fist. Under the table, Figaro settled in with the half-eaten one that had fallen there, daintily devouring it while Sara pushed a dish of peas towards the toddler.

“Peas, Wyatt. Little green squishy peeeeeeeas,” she purred in her most alluring voice. 

Grissom arched an eyebrow at her. “Say it like that and I’m tempted to eat the things myself,” he warned. 

She grinned, tucking a strand of hair behind one ear. “You mean I might seduce you to the veggie side?” Sara mused, batting her eyes at him.

Grissom looked from her to the dish of peas and paused a moment. “Nah. My relatives in Chicago would never let me hear the end of it.”

“I don’t know—let’s invite them to sit out back of the lab and watch a pig go through decomp and maybe they might change THEIR minds,” Sara replied sweetly. Wyatt reached for the dish of peas, his little hand grabbing several, squeezing them into a paste. Grissom’s chuckle died away as Wyatt turned and mashed them onto his sleeve, leaving a green Rorschach there. Sara wisely hid her grin, handing Grissom a napkin.

“Peas are for eating, Wyatt, not wearing.”  
“And if you must, wear them yourself,” Grissom chided. For a moment, Wyatt looked up at him, catching the disapproval in Grissom’s tone. His lip quivered, and seeing it, Sara reached over to stroke the baby’s cheek.

“Don’t get stern with him, okay? He’s a baby for God’s sake. They DO this sort of thing.”

“I know, I know—do you realize when he’s going to cry he looks exactly like Greg?”

“Gris-som!” Sara laughed, not wanting to admit he was right. Wyatt stuffed the remainder of his handful into his mouth, making his cheeks green, and with more encouragement, got through the rest of the meal with only minor spillage and mess.  
By the time they were done, Sara looked with dismay at the table. Grissom hefted Wyatt up and studied him as if he was some bizarre little painted Pygmy.

“Peaches, peas, sausage and I think this stuff behind his ear is butter from the toast,” he rattled off. Wyatt wriggled. Sara sighed.

“The kid needs a bath. Man, how does Greg do it? I mean, his mom’s probably doing a lot of it, but the wear and tear is incredible.”

“I guess we should be grateful he didn’t have twins,” Grissom acknowledged, hefting the toddler against his ribs. Once again, little hands reached for his beard, and a green streak colored it before Sara could intervene. She snickered, and Grissom closed his eyes.  
“Go run the water, Sara.”

It took a bit of teamwork to divest Wyatt of his overalls and socks; he squirmed and wanted to taste the bath rug, but when he was finally naked he beamed at them both, proudly swaying on his little feet, hands high in the air as he luxuriated in his personal freedom.

“Boy if that’s not male ego personified,” Sara chortled. Grissom shot her a sideways look as she continued, “In fact, I think I’ve seen you in the exact same pose, babe.”

“Yes, well I have more to be proud of,” he replied. Sara laughed out loud at that, reaching into the tub to test the water temperature.

“No argument there—hmmm, I think we have a problem. The water’s fine, but this tub is pretty deep,” she observed, leaning over. 

Grissom looked down into the water, noting the steep sides with new concern. He carefully began to peel off his shirt. Both Sara and Wyatt eyed him with surprise.

He shrugged.

“Logically then, the safest course of action would be to bathe WITH him, correct? That way I can hang onto him while you scrub all that encrusted vegetable matter off. No slippage, minimum risk.”

Sara sucked in her cheeks, trying hard not to laugh again. She nodded, and turned away as Grissom shucked the rest of his clothes, peeling them off and laying them neatly on the toilet seat. He strode over and stepped into the tub.

“Nice heinie, Grissom,” she muttered as a wide-eyed Wyatt looked at him. He fought a blush and rolled his eyes.

“Just give me the boy,” he growled. Sara did, gently lifting Wyatt and handing him to Grissom, who plonked him down on strong furry thighs. Wyatt grinned. He reached for the water and splashed, hard, chortling and babbling long strings of syllables, mostly Ms and Bs. Sara leaned over the edge of the tub and soaped up a washcloth.

“You know, I think I might have to dash out to the car,” she began casually.

Grissom shot her a dark and dangerous glance. “No. No pictures, Sara. Not if you want to live.”

“Oh come on—you two make an adorable couple,” she laughed, dodging a splash of water as Wyatt flailed his arms again, delightedly.

Grissom’s grip on his tightened, and he continued to glare, his expression becoming slightly more serious. “Not with someone _else’s child_ , Sara. Talk about misleading evidence—no, let’s just get him bathed and out of here.”

They found that was easier said than done. Wyatt wriggled and fought and whimpered and splashed, wetting Sara so thoroughly that her teeshirt had gone nearly transparent in the process. She managed to scrub the green off of his face and hands, and made it a point to rinse even between his little toes, making him giggle the entire time.

“And this little piggy had tofu, and this little piggy had none,” she sang out in a low laughing voice.

Grissom shook his head. “Tofu? What happened to roast beef?”

“Piggy went veggie. It’s the updated version. This Little Piggy two point oh.”

“Revisionist,” he snorted.

“Sue me, the kid’s having a good time. Come on Doodlebug, time to get some clothes on,” She picked Wyatt up and wrapped him in a towel, giving his scalp a quick rub to dry the fine blonde hair. Wyatt burbled, trying to look up and Sara toted him out the door, calling over her shoulder.

“Might want to take a moment to scrub too, Grissom—you still have a Martian beard.”

He finished his bath at his leisure, hearing Sara and Wyatt out in the living room. A faint sound made him look up and Grissom watched Figaro slink into the bathroom, glancing around carefully. He laughed.

“The noisy beast is in the other room, Fig. The only thing you have to worry about in here is falling in the tub again.”

Mollified, Figaro leaped onto the closed toilet seat and settled down for a good paw washing as Grissom climbed out and toweled off. He dressed, tugging the clothes out from under the cat, and checked in the mirror to see that all the peas were gone.

Out in the living room, Sara and Wyatt were playing the no-no game wherein Wyatt would toddle over and pick something up then Sara would take it from him, saying ‘no, no’. 

Grissom watched her take the Kleenex box, the car keys, the Journal of Forensic Review and a pencil stub. In desperation, Sara looked up at Grissom, and he managed a smile. He tipped his head towards the backyard. Sara picked Wyatt up and all three of them headed out.

The warmth of the afternoon made the grass smell good, and the cottonwood provided plenty of shade. Wyatt gave a shriek of glee when Sara took his socks off, and he waddled towards the hammock as Grissom sat on the brick steps next to Sara and watched him. He handed her a glass of iced tea, and she sipped it gratefully, pushing her sunglasses up higher.

“The kid’s a terror—manic energy you know?” she murmured fondly after another sip. 

Grissom nodded, leaning forward and enjoying the peacefulness. A few feet in front of them, Wyatt reached the hammock and was grabbing the netting, bouncing with delight at his newest achievement.

“Always in explore mode, be it food, bath or yard, yes, I noticed. He’s also left-handed.”

“Really? How can you tell?” Sara turned her head to look at him, amused. 

Grissom pointed towards the toddler. “Just watch him a while. The left hand is the one he uses to touch new things, or push old ones. It’s the one he ate most of his food with. Definitely a southpaw.”

“I wonder if Greg knows?”

At that moment the soft chime of the doorbell rang, and Grissom slowly rose up, looking at Sara, who shrugged back at him. “No clue. Could be Brass again.”

Grissom made his way through the house cautiously. He reached the door and checked the peephole, feeling a bizarre sense of fatalism at the sight of the person standing on the porch.

Of course. It would be her.

Carefully he pulled the door open and held up his hands, managing a resigned smile.

//Hi Mom// he signed.

*** *** ***

Greg blearily rubbed his eyes and checked his watch again against one of the clocks at McCarran. The terminal was busy, and he had staked out a bench near the right gate, but he’d gotten here an hour early. Uncle Peter wasn’t due in for another fifteen minutes, but Greg hadn’t known what else to do for the extra time; it wasn’t visiting hours at Desert Palm yet, and the house was dark and empty without her and Wyatt in it. He let his head drop into his hands to give in to a moment of despair, bitterly damning the day he’d ever met Sondra Matthews. As he sat there, head down, he noticed a pair of shoes heading in his direction. They were high tops, red, and somehow familiar. Looking up, he caught sight of Clem coming towards him, brown eyes wide, mouth slightly open as she held out her hands, her whiteboard up and a jagged scrawl reading: Oh Greg!

He rose up, startled and grateful at the same time, wondering how she knew what had happened, but before he could think anything further she pulled him into a warm hug.

Greg could have wept for the glorious comfort of it. Clem was warm and curvy and smelled wonderful; she fit against him in all the right ways, and it took real effort on his part to peel out of it and look down into her face. But he did.

“Clem, what are you doing here?” he managed, not quite letting her go. She wiped the board clean and hastily wrote out a new message.  
 _Brass has a suspect in custody and they need you to ID him. I told Brass I'd be glad to take your uncle to your house if you wanted to get to the station right away. I thought he phoned you._

Guiltily Greg fished for his cell phone, seeing the message light flashing on it. He winced, putting the receiver to his ear just as the Arrival board announced Flight 198 from Minnesota was de-boarding. Clem wiped her board clean again.  
 _What does your uncle look like?_

“Ah, it’s been a few years, but you can’t miss the mustache. Even Harleys are jealous of his handlebars,” Greg murmured, listening to the recording of Brass with one ear. She nodded, keeping a sharp watch on the escalators, and gradually the trickle of passengers coming down grew to a crowd. Greg put away his cell phone and joined the search, standing near enough to Clem to enjoy the sight of her.

She pointed. Greg followed the line of her arm to see his uncle, standing almost a foot taller than everyone else around him, looking a little confused. Peter Gunderson was tall, thin, bald and definitely in possession of a fine full grey mustache. Greg stepped forward and when his uncle caught sight of him he threw his arms around him.

“Greg,” he murmured, hugging him quickly, then letting go. Greg cleared his throat, his face red but his eyes shining.

“Hey. I’m glad you’re here.”

“Family is family,” his uncle answered, the Norwegian inflection of his words low. He sighed. “How is Missy?”

“The doctors say she’s doing good. She woke up a little bit early this morning, so that’s a good sign. Listen, I hate to do this, but I have to go in—they have a suspect, Uncle Peter, and I have to identify him. My friend Clem here will take you to the house so you can unpack and stuff. After that we’ll go check on Mom and Wyatt.”

“Clem?” Uncle Peter intoned curiously. He looked at her and something in his pale blue eyes lit up a bit. Greg nodded, placing a hand on her back.

“Clementine St. Croix. She works with me and she’s . . . a friend.”

Clem held her dark hand out and it was engulfed by the older man’s heavily callused grip.

“Very pleased to meet you,” he nodded. 

Clem scribbled out on her board. _Likewise, sir. Do you have suitcases to collect?_

Peter stared at the board, nodding slowly. Greg spoke up quickly, “Oh yeah--She can’t talk, long story but it’s not a problem. Look, I have to get going; I’ll meet you at the house as soon as I can—Thanks for being here. Clem—”

He moved to peck her cheek; she turned and Greg’s little kiss of thanks landed on the corner of Clem’s mouth, startling them both. To hide his confusion, Greg backed away, waving, then turned and strode off quickly, leaving both Peter and Clem to gape after him.

*** *** ***

//Gil?// came Olivia’s very pointed signing. Grissom followed her gaze through the living room to the playpen, still filled with the afghan and toys. His fingers flew in clumsy fashion as his mother stared at him meaningfully. He spoke as well.

“We’re babysitting at the moment. One of our younger colleagues was stalked by his ex-girlfriend and it’s not a good situation, mom. So Sara and I have his son, Wyatt for a while.”

Olivia nodded, her eyes widening in sympathy, then she glanced around again, her own hands moving with graceful economy.

//I see. Well, it’s only a flying visit this time—I have a six-hour layover before I can join Alex in New Orleans for the Rose Symposium, so I thought I’d take a chance and drop in. Oh you two have done wonders with Doreen’s place, you really have! I’m so glad. Where’s the baby?//

Grissom bit back a sigh and led his mother out to the back yard; Sara looked up over the rims of her sunglasses, eyes going wide at the sight of Olivia moving towards her, arms outstretched.

“Oh hey!” she smiled, accepting the warm hug.  
Olivia pulled back and tweaked Sara’s nose lightly. “Tuprise! On-ee for de apternoon doh.”

Sara shot a look at Grissom, who had picked up Wyatt and was bringing him over. The toddler looked at Olivia and broke into a wide smile, arms outstretched. Olivia smiled herself and took him from Grissom, bouncing the baby lightly in her arms. Wyatt patted her nose experimentally, then settled for yanking on the scarf around her neck. Sara moved over to Grissom, arms crossed over her chest.

“Did you call her?”

“Nope. The Rose Symposium is this weekend. Alex is very big on growing roses, so he and Mom go to a few of the bigger shows. He’s already in New Orleans and she’s got a layover, so she stopped by. If we play this right, we might be able to get a nap in.”

“Grissom!”

“Look at her,” he scoffed, “We won’t be able to get Wyatt out of her arms without a crowbar.”

Sara snickered at the obvious truth of Grissom’s words; Olivia and the little one in her hold were busy making faces at each other, both of them burbling happily. Grissom waved a hand in front of his mother’s face.  
“Can I get you anything? Something to drink?”

Olivia shook her head; stepping out of her high heels and carrying Wyatt back out onto the lawn. “No tank you. I’m goot.”

Sara picked up her empty tea glass and carried it into the kitchen, rinsing it out and watching Grissom, his mother and Wyatt through the kitchen window. Olivia was a natural, playing easily with the baby, kissing his feet and tickling him. Grissom hung back, not completely comfortable, but still close by, signing occasionally to his mother. Reluctantly she set the toddler down to make some reply to her son, and from the speed of her signs Sara wondered if it was another grandchild lecture.

Out on the lawn though, the discussion centered on something much more on Grissom’s mind.

“ . . . And a deed to a mine and a letter in Chinese. It’s very odd, Mom, and I just wondered if you knew anything about it,” Grissom asked. 

Olivia frowned, her attention torn between the little one tugging on her stockinged toes and her serious son. She shook her head slowly, her face drawn with pain.

//Gil, I don’t like talking about your father.//  
She paused and signed again.  
//The only part of Howard’s business dealings I ever knew about was the fifty thousand dollars of debt he left behind when he divorced me, dear. He never let me in on anything he was doing, all the way up to that day, so I have no idea why he’d have the deed to a mine! What sort of mine?//

//Silver. I’m going to do some research and see if it’s legitimate or not. And the letter?//

//He knew a lot Asian businessmen, Gil—most of them unsavory as I recall. Maybe if you get it translated you’ll know more.//

Grissom paused. He thought back over the packet of photos, and the guilty secret of Truman’s existence flashed through his mind. He’d weighed the pros and cons of mentioning him, but as he watched his mother play peek-a-boo with Wyatt he bit his lips and said nothing. Better to talk to a more objective intermediary before dropping a bombshell like that—

//Will you and Alex be coming back through this way?//

//We could.// Olivia agreed absently, watching Wyatt pick up a roly poly from the grass. She took the bug from him and handed it to Grissom, who briefly examined it before dropping it back into the grass. He caught his mother’s attention again and nodded.

“I’d appreciate it if you would, yes,” he told her.

They stayed outside until Wyatt began to get cranky, rubbing his eyes and fussing; when Olivia carried him inside, Sara had already re-arranged the afghan in the playpen. Sulkily Wyatt accepted a bottle and settled down, kicking fretfully now and then to remind everyone he wasn’t going easily into naptime.

As he began to drop off, Grissom gave his mother the tour of the house and Sara smiled to herself as she settled in on the sofa and watched Wyatt drowse off.

He wasn’t a bad kid, but he was a handful, and guiltily she admitted she was glad he was only a visitor for the time being. Dimly she could hear Grissom trying to explain to his mother about the ant farm, and wondered if he’d hastily smoothed the spread in the bedroom . . . an odd feeling of tenderness washed through her stomach as she looked around the house.  
Her house. This home she was making with Grissom.

Sara caught a glimpse of the mail truck moving past the house and stood, walking out the door and down to the box, smiling to herself as she fished out the mail.

Bills. A coupon page for some new Cajun restaurant. And a few pieces of rerouted mail for her. One of them had a return address she recognized; a sudden pang of doubt hit her as she held out the envelope from her apartment manager’s office. The lease, she remembered—was she going to renew or terminate it?

Turning, she began to walk back up the gravel drive to the house, tucking the notice at the bottom of the handful of mail. She plastered a smile on her face as she walked in to find Grissom on the phone and Olivia looking up at the Yin Yang over the fireplace. Sara set the mail down, shot a glance at the softly snoring Wyatt and turned to Grissom, who nodded to her.

“Fine. No, he’s been no trouble. Yes. Fine. You take the Fifteen . . .”

Hanging up a few minutes later he sighed. 

Sara grinned at his relieved expression.  
“Greg’s coming?”

“Yeah, straight from Booking. They found the accomplice,” Grissom told her with a pleased smile. 

Sara stepped closer to him. “And his mom?”

“He didn’t say. I had the impression she was doing better, but Greg was more concerned about picking up his son.”

Olivia came over, cocking her head and Grissom swiftly signed the conversation to her; she gave a little sigh of regret as she glanced towards the playpen.

//Of course. Tease your old mother this way. One little taste of grandmotherhood and it’s gone--// her fingers fluttered, but she smiled and reached up to pat his beard when she finished. Grissom slipped an arm around Sara and batted his eyes at Olivia.

“Fine, Mom. If you’re going to sulk, then I’m not even going to let you look at my engagement ring.”

Olivia’s eyes widened and she glanced at Sara’s hand. “Whea?” came her demand. 

Grissom rolled his eyes and held out his left hand; his mother seized it and stared down at the ring, her jaw twitching. Just as suddenly, she dropped it and her fingers flew in a rapid series of signs practically up in Grissom’s face. Sara snorted since it was obvious she was chewing him out for something albeit by gesture rather than by voice. Startled at her ire, Grissom backed up a step then neatly caught his mother’s thin wrists him his big hands.

“Mom . . . . Mom . . . stop! No I’m not taking advantage of Sara, yes I love her, yes I have a ring for her too,” he countered with annoyance, “--Of COURSE I’m going to propose!”

Olivia’s fingers flickered, even in his grip; Grissom shot Sara a helpless look and she lightly touched his mother’s shoulder.

“Grissom can’t propose until May. My father made him promise—some sort of yearlong courtship thing,” she mouthed to the older woman. Olivia looked from her to Grissom again, who ruefully nodded. He let go of her wrists, and Olivia drew in a breath, carefully drawing herself up in a dignified way. She shot her son a lofty look, then motioned to Sara and stepped in the kitchen. Once there, Olivia seized the memo pad from the fridge and hastily scribbled something on it, holding it out to Sara.

_All right, I'm sorry for overreacting there, but you must tell me, is that really an engagement ring?_

Sara grinned shyly, nodding. Olivia sighed and beamed back. She wrote again. _THANK GOD. Good, okay--so Gil's proposing in May--when are you getting married?_

Sara blinked, slightly stunned at this question.   
Oh yeah. That would be the next step--  
“Uh--” she stammered. Out in the living room, Grissom was trying to watch them and not get caught doing it. If she wasn't so stalled in Olivia's question, Sara would have laughed at his nonchalant pacing. 

_Never mind, never mind. Just—congratulations! I’m a very lucky, very grateful woman today!_ came the next note, and Sara found herself hugged fiercely. She hugged back, feeling her confusion washed away in the joyous warmth of Olivia’s embrace. As they pulled apart, the doorbell rang.

Greg stood on the porch, looking awkward, tired and shy; Grissom opened the door wider and Sara waved from the kitchen.

He stepped in, his eyes widening. “Ohhhh.” he spluttered, looking around at the décor, “This is your house—I mean, like YOUR house!” 

Grissom said nothing, his face slightly pink. Greg took a step towards the portrait of Sara on the far wall, gazing up at it. Olivia moved out of the kitchen and Sara followed her, startling Greg, who looked at them in surprise.

“Oh hey! Hi Mrs. G, Sara. Wow. I mean, just—wow. I had no idea you guys were like, nesting. This place is so totally—you.”

“Thank you,” Grissom replied dryly. Greg shot him a quick blushing look then sighed when he spotted the playpen. He moved towards it, leaning over the rim to touch Wyatt, his hand sliding over the toddler’s cheek.

“Yo killer, daddy’s back. You been a good little monster?” he whispered in a low affectionate voice. 

*** *** ***

A few hours later, after Greg and Wyatt had packed up and left, Grissom and Sara took Olivia to McCarran with hugs and promises from her to return in a week. They waited until she had boarded, then headed back to the car, each savoring the quiet between them. As they pulled out of the short-term parking lot, Sara glanced over at Grissom, wrestling for a moment with what she wanted to say.

“Did you see the mail?” she began softly. Grissom shot her a quick sidelong glance and nodded. Sara persisted. “The note from my landlord?”

“Yes.”

“It’s my lease agreement. I have to either renew or give notice.”

He nodded, not looking at her, but she saw his jaw tighten ever so slightly, and the sight of that warmed the pit of her stomach. She squirmed a little, flexing her toes inside her shoes, feeling capricious for the moment.  
“I was considering renewing it, you know.”

“I . . . suspected,” Grissom admitted softly, turning to merge onto the highway. Slightly deflated, Sara stared at him. He shrugged. “It hasn’t been easy, giving up a big part of your autonomy these past five months. I know that.”

“Oh.” She hadn’t realized Grissom had a clue. 

Chagrined, Sara stared at the dashboard instead.

“It’s okay, Sara. I know it’s not easy living with me. And sometimes I’m sure it’s a relief to know you have . . . a choice,” he continued. Something in his voice hit her hard, and as she watched his profile it dawned on her that he was struggling with it.

Sara looked at Grissom and understood in one bright moment that he was terrified of losing her and yet would let her go if she asked.  
In the ten months they’d been together, he’d never talked about her apartment because it was her door to walk through.

Her option.

Her freedom.

Something cold inside her, some tiny little sliver of ice melted right then, and Sara sighed. Reaching over, she laid a hand on his thigh.

“Grissom,” she murmured softly. “I want you to take me to my apartment right now. I want you to make love to me there, naked and deep and wild . . .”

He looked over at her, his blue eyes slightly desperate at her drawled words. 

She smiled. “And when we’re done, I want you to bring me home.”


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

“What are you doing?”

Guiltily, Grissom looked up, caught dead to rights. He turned to Sara, pushing up his glasses by the nosepiece to buy another moment of time for an explanation. She crossed her arms over her chest and locked her hot cocoa-colored eyes on him, waiting patiently.

“I was . . . investigating.”

“Investigating.” Sara echoed doubtfully. He lifted his chin, prepared to bluff it out, feeling a bit warm under the collar but striving for dignity that wasn’t really his at the moment.

Grissom nodded. “The method of scientific investigation is nothing but the expression of the necessary mode of working of the human mind. It is simply the mode in which all phenomena are reasoned about, rendered precise and exact,” he quoted boldly, adding, “Thomas Henry Huxley.”

Sara fought to keep the corners of her mouth from turning upwards. She cocked her head. “Impressive. So tell me again precisely how this lofty sentiment justifies you pawing through my underwear drawer?” she purred.

Grissom shifted uneasily, the stain of his blush evident even in the soft light of Sara’s bedroom. The top drawer of the big oak dresser extended out, revealing little wisps and snippets of colored silk in an inviting jumble, and he glanced down at it, as if the answer was waiting right there on top of the delicate lingerie.

It was not, and he was forced to look up again at Sara, who shook her head in amusement. This goaded Grissom, and he cleared his throat.

“It’s . . . a part of you,” he attempted in a mild tone as Sara gestured for him to go on. He rested a hand on the knob of the dresser. “An uncharted aspect of . . .”

“My femininity?” she offered, throwing him a bone. Gratefully he nodded.

“Exactly, your femininity. Your--mystique. A facet of your personality that I haven’t had the chance to examine in situ.”

Sara continue to scrutinize him with her unblinking gaze, and he tried to hold it, but gradually Sara’s generous mouth gave in and she broke into an open grin as she sauntered closer to the drawer in question. With a wave of her hand, she motioned him to sit on the edge of the bed, which Grissom did, slowly. Uncertainly.

“Fine. You want a panty parade, Grissom, you got it!” 

Sara fished in the drawer and pulled out a small lilac thong in cotton. She twirled them on her finger thoughtfully. “I bought these two years ago when I was part of that marathon. Needed something lightweight, yet practical. And these . . .” here she pulled out a sleek pair of panties in white floral lace, “Are the ones I usually wear to court. That way if I trip on my way to the stand and flash people, they’ll know I’m not some thrill-seeking floozy showgirl.”  
She tossed them into Grissom’s lap, then reached in the drawer again.

“Ah! These were a gag gift from Ha—ah, someone with a poor sense of humor. Wore them once and have been thinking about donating them to Goodwill.” The black panties with HOT MAMA in pink sparkly script across the backside soared into the pile on his thighs. Grissom eyed them in fascination. Sara dug deeper.

“My birthday gift to myself,” a little fire engine red eyelet thong appeared, “The only thing I bought at that Sweet Nothings party at Jacqui’s . . .” a streamlined peach cord G-string flew up, “and ohhhh yes, I remember THIS set,” she chortled softly. 

Grissom looked up as Sara held up a black underwire bra and tiny panties, along with a scrap of lace that he recognized with a hot, deep pang of arousal. He opened his mouth to breathe in, and Sara laughed, a low sexy chuckle.

“This was my ‘When-I-finally-seduce-Grissom’ ensemble. I’ve had this waiting in the wings for almost five years--Jezebel black rose lace bra, G-string and garterbelt. The stockings are still in the package, too. I tell you, this set me back a chunk of change, not to mention the layout for the shoes.”

“Get in it,” Grissom growled.

She glanced at him, watching in fascination as he brushed aside the pile of lingerie in his lap and locked his hot blue gaze on her. The effect of that look was like a nip on her earlobe, and Sara shivered, her nipples rising hard and fast. She blinked at him, and he cocked his head, looking slightly impatient and very dangerous. The slow swell of anticipation rose between herself and Grissom.

“What will you give me if I do?” came her slow taunt. At that challenge, he lifted his chin, and although he gave a little smile, the feral glow of blue in his eyes promised Sara things that made sweet tiny jolts run down her spine.

“Give?” he asked huskily, as if the concept were foreign to him. Sara nodded, lightly holding out the lingerie, caressing it blatantly, and was gratified to see his jaw tighten at the sight.

“Well of course, Grissom. If I cater to your request here and get into this very small bit of silk, then I’m going to need something in return.”

“What do you want?” he asked in a tone both amused and slightly desperate. Sara looked him over thoughtfully.

“I want,” she began with a suppressed smirk, “Your glasses.”

For a moment Grissom frowned, wondering at the oddness of the request, but lust overrode logic, and he carefully took them off and handed them to her. Sara accepted them in the free hand and smiled.

“Very well then, Mr. Underwear Investigator, wait here and I shall be back very shortly.”

She turned, leaving him with a puzzled expression and headed first to the closet and then to the bathroom, smiling to herself.  
Getting into the lingerie didn’t take long, and Sara was pleased it all still fit as well as it had the day she’d bought it. Against her pale skin, the black might have seemed harsh, but the panels of filmy lace softened the effect, and the entire ensemble gave her a sleek, mysterious beauty. As she finished adjusting the garterbelt, stroking the clips smooth, Sara glanced in the mirror.

Swiftly, she gathered her hair up in a neat French twist, pinning it in place with the two black lacquered chopsticks she’d used at New Years. A few swipes of deep rose lipstick, and the final touch---Sara slid Grissom’s glasses onto her face. They were big, of course, but the style wasn’t bad, and his prescription wasn’t as strong as she’d thought. Studying herself critically, she fought a giggle at the Mata Hari School Teacher look she’d suddenly achieved.

Carefully she opened the bathroom door and sauntered out, keeping her stride slow as she approached the bed and the man sitting on it; the electrified expression on Grissom’s face was worth the pinch of the heels, Oooh definitely. He stared up at her, then down the cool planes and inviting curves of her body, his blue eyes wide and wondering. Sara stopped a foot in front of him and flexed a hip, arms behind her back, one hand gripping the other elbow in the manner of a schoolgirl.

“This is just how I used to fantasize about it, Grissom. Only I was the teacher and YOU were the student.”

He kept looking up at her face, caught up in the sight of her in glasses, HIS glasses, perched on her pointed nose. Grissom flexed his hands.

“You look . . .” At a loss for words, he sucked in a sharp breath and tried again. “I WANT you.”

Sara laughed softly and took a step forward, within arm’s range. Grissom reached for her but she slapped his hand, hard. He drew back, his expression instantly angry, but Sara shook her head.

“School’s in session, Mr. Grissom, and if you want to be Teacher’s Pet, you have to follow the rules. No touching unless directed.”

“Sara,” came his low warning. She looked over the top of the glasses at him and slowly licked her lips. He tensed, his big shoulders shifting at the sight. Sara smiled.

“Good boy, Mr. Grissom. Yes, Teacher thinks you’re going to be the star of the class. Now let’s see---maybe you need to take your shirt off.”

The fiery spark in his blue eyes promised dire revenge now, but the small, annoyed smile on his face left Sara feeling very smug. He slid out of his shirt, then reached for his jeans, but Sara shook her head, making a disapproving sound as she did so.

“Oh no, not the pants. No extra credit yet. Do you like my outfit?”

“Yes. Come closer and I’ll show you,” came his taunt.

“Not quite yet. You need some work in anatomy, Mr. Grissom. Sit down,” Sara told him sternly. Reluctantly he did on the edge of the bed, eyes locked on her the whole time. Sara paced a few steps in front of him, well aware of his gaze, and the heavy ridge tenting the front of his jeans now. Very carefully she lifted one impossibly long leg and set her high heel on his knee. The move, elegant and powerful, left Grissom with a clear vision right up the length. He reached for her foot, but again, she slapped his hand.

“Ah-ah. Not time for touching. Now, Mr. Grissom, what lies north of the ankle?”

His jaw twitched. The point of the high heel dug into his thigh, not painfully, but firmly enough. Dutifully he answered, “The shin, Miss Sidle.”

“Very good. You’ve been studying, haven’t you?”

“Extensively,” he admitted, eyes sliding along her foot with lustful cheer. She could see how much he wanted to touch it, so she pressed the heel down a little harder.

“Excellent. And above the shin, young man?”

His mouth twitched at the incongruity of Sara calling him ‘young man’ but she looked so stern, so amazingly HOT in his glasses that he spoke up quickly.

“The patella, or kneecap.”

“Correct, Mr. Grissom. For that, you may touch those three places—“

He did, sliding his big hands hungrily over her high heel and foot, caressing up her leg to her knee. Sara held still and fought to look unmoved by his stroke, difficult as it was. He had a soft way of sliding his fingers in little circles to tease. 

“What lies further north of the patella, Mr. Grissom?”

He leaned forward, and without warning Sara shifted her foot, high heel pressing against his hard-on. He tensed.

“Th-the thigh, Miss Sidle,” he gulped a little, worried now, but still achingly aroused. He’d never pictured Sara as the dominatrix type, but judging by his body’s enthusiastic response it was clear that her smug mastery needed conquering . . . and yet, the odd desire to . . . please her . . .

“Yes, Mr. Grissom. You certainly know a lot about large muscle groups—“ came her throaty reply.

“Hands-on experience,” he offered with a smile dipped in naughtiness. Sara fought hard not to laugh. This game tickled her in more ways than one, and the gratification in seeing Grissom aroused but compliant sent a shiver of heat down her stomach. She reached her forefinger up to touch the glasses, the gesture flirtatious. He watched her intently.

“And do you LIKE my thighs, Mr. Grissom?”

“I more than like them, Miss Sidle,” came his confession. “I . . . “

“Yeeeeess?” she drawled out. He sighed a little.  
“Well, when I see them, I want to lick them.”

Sara quivered a little at that confession, looking down at Grissom, who nodded, as if to back this statement up.

“You said that on purpose,” she accused, frowning. “Just to throw me off.”

“Guilty. Do I win?” he added hopefully. Sara withdrew her foot and shook her head, stepping back, the long lean lines of her body an erotic silhouette. She reached down and slid one high heel off, letting it drop to the floor.

“Not. Just for that you’re going to take my stockings off with your TEETH, Mr. Grissom.”

Then she slid the other heel off and tossed it over her shoulder.

His eyelashes fluttered and he cocked his head, like a dog wanting to be very sure of what it just heard. Sara slowly, sensually unhooked her garters, then shot him a cool look through the glasses, clearly waiting for him to comply.

Unhurriedly, Grissom moved off the edge of the bed and got to his knees, shifting with deliberation. Even then, he was still too tall, so he leaned forward, his head tilting. Sara felt his hot breath warm the front of her thigh, the feel of it making her skin erupt into goosebumps. A soft nip, and looking down she watched him tug gently on the sheer stocking, trying to keep his balance without using his hands to brace himself. She reached out and stroked his hair, as if he were a big shaggy dog, and the softness of it under her hand tickled.

“Carefully, Mr. Grissom. You DO want to do a good job—“

He did. Stomach quivering, Grissom fought the alternate waves of anger and lust surging through him. He fought for balance, nose rubbing along Sara’s beautifully muscled leg, longing to kiss it, but there was a job to do. He dropped lower, hands on the carpet and carefully tugged the first stocking down, trying hard not to think about the pangs of frustration that shot through his chest.

Galling. Utterly galling. It went against the grain, the very Alpha fiber of his nature and Grissom inwardly growled. Bitterly he knew Sara should be the one on her knees, not him, yet the taste of the silk, warm from her body, and the added spice of her sexual musk, so close, was making it hard to resist. He struggled, again, feeling a confinement not unlike the cuffs, but more insidious. The casual taunt of her soft words was enough of a challenge for him to do the job with contemptuous perfection, and earn the pink.

Sara stepped back and turned around, not looking at Grissom, who was rising back up on his knees.

“Now the other one, and maybe then we’ll see how well you understand being the student, Mr. Grissom.” She told him without a backward glance. He stared at her slender figure, wondering who this chilly stranger in his glasses was, and what had happened to his Sara, tender and loving.

Then she shifted, and leaned forward; the image of her perfect ass, the thin lace barely dividing the peach-like globes made Grissom bite back a slightly desperate growl. Her taunt was purely sexual; his reaction surged from places deep within him as he lunged and let his teeth rake the back of one long hot thigh.

Sara flexed a little, but other than that made so sign she’d even felt him, despite the light scrape of his beard and the wet nuzzle of his lips as he carefully caught the edge of the stocking in his strong teeth. He made it a point to rub his cheek against her this time as he worked the stocking down that sleek length. When it fluttered to the carpet and she stepped out of it, Sara turned and shot Grissom a cool smile, once again stroking his head with an almost absent caress.

“Now THIS is a fantasy . . . you have no idea how many nights I lay in that bed dreaming of a moment like this, Mr, Grissom. Of having my big, brilliant boss on his knees, WANTING me so badly. And you do, don’t you?” 

Grissom fought the rising rebellious urge to just grab her, to take her right there on the carpet. If this was Sara’s game, this slow torment, he vowed to take it and win. She might think she could boss him around, but he could see the bright fever in her eyes behind the lenses, the little flutter of pulse at her throat. Sara was just as hot and aroused as he was.

“Yesssss,” he replied with less than grace. His cock ached, confined and throbbing against his jeans, spurred on by the sensory overload. Sight, smell, taste, touch and sound, all radiating an Anglo Saxon four-letter word between them.

Sara laughed, the sound husky and sweet, tinged with sex.

“If you’re hungry I’ve got something you can eat, Mr. Grissom.”

Her words slammed hard against Grissom’s ears and he blinked as his entire body pulsed with lust now, feral.

“Christ, I KNOW you do, honey . . .” came his croaky response. Sara sank her fingers into his hair and tugged, not enough to hurt, but to tip his head and look down into his hot blue eyes, his open lips.

“Jeezus, Grissom. Keep looking at me like that and I’ll come right here—“ she grinned. 

He shifted closer, moving on his knees towards her, one hand helplessly sliding down to stroke the ridge in the front of his jeans, anything to ease the pressure now—

“Yeah, well the view’s magnificent—“ he rasped back, savoring the black lace against her hipbones, the low cut of the thong only inches away. Sara turned, and backed up a few steps to the wall, then stroked her stomach, letting her fingers toy with the garter belt before she unhooked it, letting it fall. Grissom moved closer as she leaned against the wall.

“Don’t take them off, don’t rip them,” Sara ordered, running her elegant hand over the front of her panties. His smile flashed out, and with gentle hands, Grissom stroked the outsides of her thighs.

“I won’t need to,” he promised, and dipped his head.

The lace was thin and filmy and his kiss wetted it thoroughly as he tasted the tang of her arousal through it. Sara moaned when he pressed his mouth onto her mound and muffled the heat of his breath there. His hands slid up and down the outside of her hips as he kept kissing the front of her panties. Sara’s hands dropped to his shoulders as she tried to steady herself. She widened her stance, opening her lean thighs, but he kept his kisses focused on the front panel of the lace for a long while.

“Good . . . “ Grissom whispered against her trapped curls, and Sara rocked forward a little. His hands curved around her ass and he shifted his face, beard tickling her thighs as he gripped the edge of one leghole in his teeth, tugging it aside and nuzzling along the uncovered fur. Sara tensed, bringing one knee up and hooking it over his broad shoulder.

“Good,” she agreed in the hot little voice she had when she was turned on. Grissom loved that tone, that undeniable proof. He let his tongue slide out, licking the hot sensitive crease between her thigh and mound. Sara shivered. He did it again, pressing a kiss there for good measure, them worked the tip of his nose across through the damp curls, keeping his touch soft until he found the small rigid little bud and lightly flicked his tongue over it.  
Sara stiffened, arching a little, and when she did Grissom gripped her ass more tightly. With the leisurely strokes of a grooming tiger, he licked, sliding the wet broad length of this tongue along the cleft under her mound, losing himself in the tart honey flavor of Sara. 

Every stroke made her shiver and clutch his shoulders more tightly and the steady stream of Sara’s groans and curses were filtered by the ache of growing lust in her voice.  
“GodohGod, Mmmmmister Grissom you are sooo good at that!”

He barely heard her, his focus solely on the tender pleasures of toying with her taut body, teasing in a slow steady fashion with his beard, lips and tongue. Within a few minutes he sensed the change in her breathing, the spasmodic grip of her fingers on his shoulders and fought the throbbing of his cock long enough to keep his gentle wet kisses moving over her slippery little pearl.

Sara cried out, sinking her nails into Grissom’s shoulders, rocking her hips forward in wanton thrusts, pushing herself against his mouth as the electric shock of beautiful, nasty tension seared through her in wild jolts from the center of her pussy outward. Sara clutched Grissom with her hands, her long leg and as her passion slowly abated, she slowly slumped against the wall, sighing heavily.

Grissom shifted her thigh from his shoulder and rested his cheek against it, loving the feel of her warm damp skin against his slick face. The heady scent and taste of her lingered on his mouth and he sucked on his lower lip happily. He knew he needed her badly but for the moment he was the only thing holding her up, and the fierce pride in having reduced her to this limp, sated softness kept him on his knees.

Sara moaned, shifting her wet ass off the wall and looking down at the top of Grissom’s head. She couldn’t quite focus, not with the glasses askew off one ear, and when he turned his face to look up at her, he smiled.

“I’m still hungry, Miss Sidle,” came his little growl. Sara tottered off to one side of him and reached for the bed, sliding herself across the coverlet. With languid abandon, she slid out of her panties and patted the mattress.  
“Come here—“

He didn’t need a second invitation. Grissom moved off his knees and to the bed, feeling a twinge in his legs and ignoring it in favor of greater needs at the moment. Sara pinned him, holding his big wrists down and kissing him deeply, licking her slickness from his mouth in a wild little frenzy between their mouths, punctuated by puffs of breath, groans and soft sexual threats.

“Mine, Grissom, right now you are SO mine . . .”

“WANT you, damn it, Sara, please honey, I NEED you . . .”

She shucked his jeans down, sliding a slender hand into his boxers, caressing him only to feel the wet head throb against her fingers. Laughing, she dropped her mouth to his ear.  
“Oh Mr. Grissom. I think I could take care of this very nicely if you’re good . . .” she tugged the boxers down.

“I’ll be good,” he gasped, “Completely good, just . . .”

Sara shifted again, moving Grissom until he was over her, propped on his hands, his belly kissing hers, the hot impatient nudge of his thick cock along her hip. She pushed up on his chest and sat up.

“Just a minute—“

Puzzled, Grissom rose up on his knees, magnificent in his nakedness, cock rising from the heavy thatch of wiry grey fur. Sara carefully folded her legs, sitting Indian style, then rolled back, keeping her legs folded. Grissom looked down at her, then placed one big hand on the point where her ankles crossed right under his chest. Her thighs were widely parted this way; the gorgeous flare of amber fur lay parted and open to his gaze, her slick raspberry cleft gleaming enticingly.

He leaned forward, guiding himself with the other hand, and the tension, the exquisite compression of her supple body around him made Grissom groan loudly. He thrust, unable to hold back anymore, compelled to take Sara now, hard and fast and deep. Arching, he rocked into her, driving his cock into the lush caress of her wet sex.

She gave a low cry of pleasure, arms snaking up to wrap around his shoulders as he braced his hands on either side of hers and pumped. Sara watched him, studied Grissom’s face and loved the achingly intimate expressions blazing across those familiar features. Grissom in the heat of animal lust was terrifyingly gorgeous. His half-shut eyes blazed, his mouth formed low urgent growls and the soft trickles of sweat ran down his forehead and dripped onto her. 

Sara rolled her hips, feeling a soft but no less urgent wave of desire building up. She laughed, and let her words urge him on.  
“Oh yeah, yeah, you want it, yes, I know you do, take me, Grissom, nice and deep, feels so fucking good, love it, want it so bad don’t you—“  
His hips were ramming hard into her now, finess gone, only raw lust riding his spine as he growled.

“Sara, Sara God gonna come HARD, Jesus baby HARD, I . . .”

He dropped on her, arms giving out as the staccato thrusts drove him on. Sara felt pinned, and the hot surges of his cock against her slick walls were enough to send the little roil of desire into a flame between her thighs. Mewling, Sara came again, dazzled by the flashes of white going off behind her eyes.  
When she opened them again, Grissom was looking down at her, his expression so tender it hurt to see it. Carefully he reached down and with his teeth along the side of her face, took his glasses off of her nose.

“ ’I. Oo ook coot in ease.”

“Mmmmm, not as cute as you do. I love you in glasses, you look all seducible in them, you know?” she murmured, content with the feel of his body on hers.

Grissom chuckled a little through the mouthful of earpiece and shifted, sliding free of her body and rolling onto his back next to her. For a moment they lay together in silence, and Grissom slipped an arm around her shoulders.  
“That was . . . particularly intense. I can’t believe how sexually compelling you are when you’re . . . authoritative.”

“Dominating?” Sara teased, but very, very softly. Grissom turned to kiss her damp temple, his lips moving against her hairline.

“Not quite dominating. But definitely—confident. And the glasses were appealing in that schoolteacher way. Miss Sidle is far and away my favorite teacher for lunch.”

Sara laughed, burrowing into him, kissing along the edge of his beard.

“It’s a nice way to say goodbye to this place, actually, living out that old fantasy of mine. Thanks for doing it. I know it wasn’t really what you were expecting, but—“ she kissed him again, “I appreciate it.”

Grissom laughed, tightening his arm around her.

*** *** ***

Greg looked at his mother, his expression a jumble of tenderness and relief. She was sitting up in bed, already crocheting, with Peter holding her yarn. She smiled at Greg and patted the edge of the hospital bed.

“Hey stranger. Who’s got Wyatt?”

“Oh! Um, Catherine and Lindsay wanted him for a visit so I slipped him their way. So, when can we start packing?”

“Already packed and ready to go. The nurse is coming with the chair in a few minutes,” his uncle commented softly. Greg sat down and reached for his mother’s hand, squeezing it softly. She squeezed it back in a perfect little moment.

“So.”

“So.”

“So.” Peter smiled. “Tell us about this Clem girl you kissed.”

Missy’s eyes widened and she stared at Greg. “You kissed Clem?”

“No I didn’t—well sort of, but it wasn’t on purpose, it was an accident,” Greg protested.

Peter shot him a doubtful look and Missy’s eyebrow went up.

“So let me get this straight—you accidentally kissed Clem and didn’t mean it? What’s wrong with you? What’s wrong with her?”

“Nothing! Nothing’s wrong with her OR me, Mom! Clem’s a very cool girl and I’m sure she’d be great to kiss, but I didn’t really kiss her, okay?”

“How can you not really kiss somebody, Greg?”

“By missing their mouths, mom. It was . . .” he foundered for a moment, “a grandmother kind of kiss. Sort of on the corner of her mouth, you know? A slip of the lip. And why are we even talking about this anyway?”

His mother sighed, and looked down for a moment, setting down the crochet hook and yarn.

“Because you’re a young man, Greg. And you’ve been alone a long time, and because I don’t want you missing out on a chance to date even though you’re a father. You deserve a shot at love you know, even if the first one didn’t work out.”

Face flaming, Greg looked from his mother to his uncle, seeing the mutual guilt there.

“So you’re talking about my lovelife behind my back. Great, just what I need—Norwegian matchmaking. So on your advice I should date Clem, fall in love with her, marry her, have babies and start a new generation of Sanders right here in Las Vegas, right?”

A little movement caught his eye, and as he turned to face the door he saw the bouquet first, and behind it, the startled blushing face of Clementine.

She dropped the flowers, and darted away, leaving all three Sanders staring.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

 

The bleachers were filling up, slowly but surely, and the soft scent of grilling hot dogs drifted on the late Saturday afternoon breeze. The Nightshift Scorpions, all of them in new dark green and white jerseys of various sizes and fits were crowded in the dugout around Grissom, receiving last-minute instructions. Grissom looked around the group, his expression mild as he adjusted the catcher’s chest padding around himself.

“Not much to say—you all know your strengths; play to them. Watch each other’s backs. Keep an eye on Ecklie’s ringers and try to remember that whatever the outcome, it’s a game. We play for the pride and the fun, never the score, all right?”

The team around him nodded, their return gazes ranging from semi-serious (Bobby and Nick) to amused (Warrick, Sara, Catherine) to completely preoccupied (Greg, Clem, Hodges). Grissom tossed Sara a spare ball that she pocketed, then turned his baseball cap around backwards and looked out to the field. Ecklie’s Wolves were warming up, and the scarlet of their jerseys looked like blood.

Nick stood next to him and sighed. “They’re not wolves, hell they’re not even coyotes. Buzzards more like.”

“Big ungainly carrion eaters—so let’s not give them our carcass for dinner,” Grissom replied grimly.

Nick stared at him. “What about all that talk about having fun and not caring about the score, man?”

“I had to say that, I was being the coach. But I’m telling you right now as the catcher, I’d rather do a two-week-old decomp with my bare hands than lose this game to Ecklie.” 

Grissom growled. Nick grinned.

As the coin toss proceeded, Sara looked up at the bleachers, gratified to see the heavy turnout on the Scorpion side. Brass was there, along with Vega and Vartan, all three of them sporting dark blue LVPD ball caps and golf shirts. Down a row from them were a few significant others: Bobby’s roommate Chris; Archie’s girlfriend Daisy; Judy, the receptionist that Nick was dating—

With a startled grin she recognized the couple sitting next to the edge of the bleachers; they caught her eye and waved. Sara strode over to Grissom and laughed as the Scorpions prepared to take the field first.

“What?”

“Um, Grissom, your mom and step-dad are here for your big game. Aren’t you excited?”

Grissom blinked. He craned his neck and glanced at the bleachers, then drew in a deep, deep breath. “Sara, take note. This could get ugly.”

“Ugly?” she finished tying her sneaker then straightened up and shot Grissom a questioning look. “Don’t tell me, your mom doesn’t approve of you playing sports?”

“My mother,” Grissom admitted in a low, rapid voice, “has . . . opinions about sports. About calls. And umpires. And anyone she thinks is preventing her darling son from winning. And don’t think for a moment that because she’s deaf that’s going to hold her back from expressing those opinions.”

Sara tried not to giggle, but her smirk grew wide with the effort. Grissom scowled. “It’s not funny, Sara. My mom was ejected from about HALF of my Little League games you know, and . . . Sara!”

She burst out laughing, spinning away to avert her face, but her shoulders shook and Grissom slammed the cage of his faceguard down over his frown.

“Come ON Grissom, You’re a big boy now, and she’s not about to come charging down on the field to argue a play with anyone, is she?” 

Grissom said nothing, his face dark. Sara hesitated in mid-chuckle, suddenly a little wary. She persisted. “Is she?”

“Take your base, Sara—and let’s hope Mom’s . . . mellowed.” Shaking his head doubtfully, Grissom walked to home plate while Sara jogged over to first.

*** *** ***

By the bottom of the fifth, it was clear that Ecklie’s ringers had pushed the Day Shift hard, and the training was paying off. The Wolves led the Scorpions seven to four, most of their runs the result of poor fielding on the part of Grissom’s team. Hodges, Catherine and Greg tried, but their relay needed work and it showed. On the bright side, none of the runs scored by the Wolves had been home runs while two of Scorpion’s hits had been, thanks to Clem and Bobby.

Grissom was in his element, by turns encouraging and calm, keeping an eye on his team and the bleachers. Most of the Night Shift were fairly relaxed, enjoying the last of the sunshine. As Susan Collates walked up to bat, Grissom shot a knowing look to Warrick, who grinned ruefully. Collates had a habit of hitting the ball back in a straight line to the pitcher and had nearly winged him twice already.

“Heads up,” Grissom commented softly, dropping to his catching stance. Susan shifted her feet and eyed Warrick steadily. Out in the field the batter chant went up in a low murmur. Warrick threw.

It was a good pitch, inside but within the zone and the umpire called it correctly. Susan grumbled, dragging her bat on the rubber base. Sara tensed; waiting for the next pitch, knowing the woman would probably swing and connect.

She did, but not in the way anyone expected. Susan swung, hitting the ball in the predicted line drive right back to Warrick, catching him on the hip. At the same time, the bat came around in an arc and the end of it hit Grissom in the shoulder with a meaty sound. She took off for first as the bat clattered to the dirt, and Sara yelled.

Warrick yelped; the ball bounced off of him in a vector between home and third. Grimacing, Grissom peeled off his mask and lunged for it even as the umpire called the foul. Susan slammed by Sara on the first base bag, leaving her frustrated and worried. Already Bobby and Warrick were trotting in after signaling for a time out, both of them heading for Grissom. Sara loped over, beating them both.

“Grissom?”

“No big deal. No harder than a wild pitch,” he told her as he rubbed his shoulder. As the words left his mouth, the hard rattle of something hitting the chain link fence near the dugout rang out and an indignant voice yelled out.

“Dat wa DE-LIB-BET!” Olivia insisted, glaring out through the fence, her gimlet eye on Susan hunched at first. Startled at this accusation, the Day Shift athlete held her hands up in a placating fashion, but Olivia wasn’t mollified. She shifted her gaze to her son. “Gi’l?”

With a sigh, Grissom lumbered over to the fence, tucked his glove under his arm and flashed quick signs at his mother, his cheekbones flushed.

//I’m FINE, Mom, go sit down.//

//She did it on PURPOSE you know. They mean to get you or Warrick out. Don’t think it was an accident! That Ecklie is a snake, Gil, a SNAKE!//

//Mom, cool off, it’s fine. // Grissom signed wearily and turned back to home base. In the stands, Alex was shaking his head and making his way down to collect his irate bride. 

Grissom walked over to Warrick.  
“I’m fine, just clipped a little. You?”

“I’ll have a bruise but nothing major. You saw it—deliberate?”

Warrick thought about it and reluctantly shook his head. “If it was Paul or Carl, maybe, but I don’t think Susan’s the type, even if Ecklie wanted her to. All the same, man, we need to keep an eye out. I wouldn’t put it past them to try a few tricks.”

Grissom nodded, looking over at the other dugout, where Ecklie, cool and clean in his Wolves jersey and cap stared smugly back at them.

“You’re delaying the game, Grissom,” he called out snidely as he crossed his arms. Grissom pulled his facemask back down and lumbered back to home, getting back down in his stance as the umpire called for play to resume.

Sara kept one eye on Susan, who was leading off the bag, and the other on the next batter. A pop fly brought the first out, and things seemed to settle down through the next two batters as Susan advanced to second. Then Paul Dante came up to bat. He was a big-shouldered power hitter who knew his worth and had a habit of overkill when it came to competition. Sneering he picked up his bat and swung it dangerously close to the catcher, enjoying Grissom’s flinch.

“I feel like crushing some Scorpions,” he taunted under his breath. Grissom didn’t bother with a reply, settling down into his squat. Warrick threw, outside and high; Paul ignored it and glared out at the field. Grissom kept an eye on Sara at first. The next pitch sailed out and Paul caught it right on the sweet spot of the bat, sending it high into the sky as he gunned for first base. Susan was already heading to third and looking like she’d make it home; Grissom stared out at the field, willing Hodges to run faster and somehow he did, but not enough to catch the ball.

Meanwhile, Paul ran, moving hard and fast, and in his drive to first he plowed straight into Sara, who was turned towards the outfield waiting for the ball. It was a vicious deliberate hit; his weight and velocity were enough to knock her to the ground and the sound of her choking attempts to breathe carried through the ballpark. On both sets of bleachers, everyone watching jumped up, and for a frozen moment, time seemed suspended.

And then Grissom charged.

He took off, abandoning home plate, leaving a startled Susan Collates to stride in unimpeded as he lumbered with ferocious speed heading dead-on for the smug-faced Paul Dante. The batter’s expression shifted to alarm as Grissom in full catcher’s gear bore down on him like a padded Mack truck, blue eyes blazing behind the grille of his mask.

“Shiiiii—“ he never got to finish the statement as Grissom slammed into him, knocking him off the base and onto his ass with a heavy ‘thump’ into the dirt. A collective groan went up along the bleachers, and Warrick dashed over as Grissom fell on Dante, flattening him amid clouds of dust. The umpire quickly jogged over as well, and with increasing momentum, everyone else deserted their positions and began heading to the fracas at first.

Sara rolled over, trying to get to her feet; Nick tugged her up, checking her while watching Grissom, who was in the process of slamming Paul’s head on the turf. Warrick was having limited success in pulling him away partially because of Grissom’s fury and partially because he wasn’t trying terribly hard. The umpire was yelling himself hoarse, and Ecklie trotted out, torn between wanting to watch the battle and avoiding the ensuing pileup.

“What . . . about . . . Good . . . Sportsmanship!?” Catherine hollered at Grissom while she tried to yank Paul out from under her teammate.

“I AM a good sport; I haven’t killed him . . . yet,” came the answering growl; hearing it, Warrick grinned, and Nick snickered. After a few seconds more of yelling and scuffling, the umpire managed to insinuate himself between Grissom and Paul. Dante had a scrape on one cheek and looked winded; Grissom looked grim.

“I could call this whole game forfeit unless you take your bases and get back to play, NOW!” He yelled. 

Ecklie came up behind him, peering over his shoulder, full of maliciously sly amusement. “Jesus Grissom, if you can’t even keep it together for a friendly softball game, I have to wonder how you manage to run a shift,” came his snide observation.

It was his last for a while as suddenly; a large beige handbag clocked him in the back of the head with a heavy ‘THUNK’.

Dumbfounded, both the Wolves and the Scorpions watched Ecklie totter a bit, then drop like a wobbly sack of laundry to the ground, finally scuffing his pristine uniform with a thick layer of grime.

Grissom paled. “MOM!!” he shouted futilely, too stunned to sign.

Standing behind where Ecklie had been, Olivia Grissom De Montavallo shot a glare so fierce that even the umpire lurched back a bit. She drew herself up, all five feet four inches of motherly indignation and managed a fierce smile. “Oops.”

She took a step towards Paul Dante.

*** *** ***

Sara glanced again over towards the kitchen window, but still couldn’t see anything. Occasionally she heard Grissom’s voice, muffled but exasperated, carrying though the closed back door.

“It will be a while—I’m sure you’re familiar with the Grissom temper, aren’t you?” Alex murmured with amusement as he looked up from his sketchpad. He and Sara were sitting in the back yard under the Cottonwood tree sipping iced tea and waiting patiently. She grinned over at Alex, who looked cool and comfortable with his shirtsleeves rolled up and his suit jacket neatly draped on the back of his lawn chair.

“Only in passing, thank God.”

“Ah, yes, well the problem is, they BOTH have that temper, and so when Gil and his mother find themselves on opposite sides, it takes a while for both of them to let it all out. Fascinating, really—so much passion at times. I remember the first time Olivia shouted at ME like it was yesterday.”

Sara rattled the ice cubes in her glass and studied Alex for a moment. He sat with ramrod posture, making swift and careful strokes on the drawing pad, occasionally looking up at her with those dark basset hound eyes. His nose twitched under her scrutiny.

A chuckle rolled out of her. “I can’t picture Olivia ever shouting at you . . . I mean come on! You two are as compatible as . . . a pair of shoes. Meant to be together,” she floundered with her simile, but Alex smiled broadly.

“Bravo! I guess you could call it a matter of finding one’s mate, but to be honest, Sara my dear, it was probably a well-deserved telling off. I was NOT at my best when I met her, a fact I’m sure Gil will be happy to attest to.” He stroked his stick of charcoal in a swirl near the top of the pad, his focus back on the paper for a moment, and Sara felt a pang of deep affection for the aristocratic older man as she watched him draw.

Leaning back in her chair, she sipped another mouthful of tea and spoke up. “It looks like we have time, so you HAVE to tell me the story, Alex—what did you do to piss Olivia Grissom off?”

He looked up from the pad, blinked, and sighed, a nostalgic expression crossing his lean face. Alex smiled. “Oh Sara . . . very well. It started on a sweltering August afternoon in a small California art gallery in nineteen seventy-one . . .”

*** *** ***

It was hot, and he hated the heat. Not always, of course, but today instead of a cooling breeze blowing from off-shore as it usually did, the air hung heavy and still, and Sir Alex De Montavallo could feel sweat trickling down his back under his shirt, vest and jacket. He fidgeted, wishing he could take something off and cool down, but he’d dressed to be taken seriously, and that meant the whole nine yards in terms of clothing. Lightweight wool was perfect for England, but hideous warm for the sunny California coast. He tugged at his collar and took a moment to check the address scribbled on the slip of paper in his hand.

Visionary Gallery, 145 B Verde Street.

Alex snorted. Visionary indeed—most Americans had no genuine concept of what it took to be visionary in Art. Oh they’d had success with Modern forms, notably the abstracts and Deco, which he rather fancied, but so damned few of them were trained in any true Art history. Show a New Yorker a Caravaggio and he was more likely to send it to a church than a gallery half the time. With a sigh, he pocketed the slip of paper and looked down the quiet street for a building number.

The shops were fairly upscale venues: a nice seafood restaurant, a jeweler, an architects’ office, all charming in the way seaside businesses often were. Alex noted a young waitress eyeing him through the glass front window and smiled politely at her. Charming, but too young. Had he more time he might have spent an afternoon drinking tea at one of her tables and flirting with her, but at the moment he was down to the last lead on his case, and in any event no establishment in the States made a proper cup of tea anyway.

He spent a moment watching her wink at him and turned away, smiling to himself. Still too young, but it was nice to think she’d thought him worth the effort. American women were the best part of the assignments that brought him here: They were bold and refreshingly honest about everything, and every time he returned to Pamela’s indifferent company he regretted his marriage more and more.

Pamela. His estranged blonde wife. She was perfectly content to carry a title and run his estate, deeply satisfied to be seen in the social life of an aristocrat, but in private, Pamela had no room, no use for him. She abhorred any sort of physical passion, tolerated art in a vague, noblisse oblige fashion, and never understood that his job with the National Gallery was never about money but about vocation.

They’d married because it had been expected; Alex had hoped that the cordiality of their relationship would grow into something more. Certainly she was beautiful in a cool patrician sort of way, cool being the operative word. After a few encounters to consummate the marriage, Pamela firmly made it clear that her duties in bed were over. That had been nearly seven years ago, and Alex wondered drearily if the enforced celibacy was going to drive him insane.

A dog wandered up to him, and reflexively Alex held out his hand, letting the Golden retriever sniff him over. It was a large cheerful dog, with expressive eyes and a hopeful look that hinted any small bit of spare food would be welcome. 

Alex smiled. “Hullo pup. I guess we rather fit, don’t we? The two of us out in the noonday sun,” he dandled the dog’s ears gently, a move much appreciated by the soft sigh of the big animal. Looking up, Alex noted a lanky boy in cut off denim shorts and sandals heading down the sidewalk, shooting the dog an exasperated look.

“Don’t beg, Ernie,” He told his pet, reaching down to tug gently on the dog’s collar. “Not everybody wants to feed you.”

The dog looked embarrassed for a moment at being caught, then offered a cautious tail wag of apology.

“Is he yours? Lovely dog, very polite,” Alex murmured to the boy, who shaded his eyes to look up at him.

“Ernie’s friendly. Sometimes TOO friendly,” the boy admitted with a knowing smirk that Alex couldn’t help joining in on.

“I suppose it’s possible, given the breed. Can you help me, young man? I’m trying to locate the Visionary Gallery somewhere along this street.”

“It’s up there, other side of Magnati’s florist shop,” came the easy reply. “But it’s being repainted.”

“Ah.” Alex noted carefully. The boy took in his three-piece suit and polished shoes with a wary eye.

“You can’t miss it,” he added, following his dog. Alex watched them go, then looked up in the direction the boy had indicated and walked on. There wasn’t much shade, and the slight incline of the street didn’t help either, so by the time he reached the open door of the gallery, Alex was feeling . . . . wilted. The vinegary odor of paint drifted out and he stepped inside, looking about carefully, and hoping that after his errand was done he could peel off his jacket and call it a day—

Lord, the most gloriously rounded backside he’d even seen was about to brush his nose. Curvy and feminine, tightly encased in paint-splattered denim, mere inches from his face. Alex gazed helplessly at the sweet globes and dimly realized at least ONE part of him wasn’t wilting anymore.

The woman on the ladder looked over her shoulder at that moment, catching sight of his adoring gape. Startled, she scowled. “Stop staring at my ass and get out of my gallery!” she snapped, although it came out sounding more like “Top taring a my at and ge’ ow of my gowree!”

Alex backed up a step, his face hot with embarrassment. The woman climbed down and turned to face him, and when she did so, he blinked, his fascination shifting to a new point of miraculous interest. Those eyes! Pellucid and bright they caught and held him with their flare. 

He lifted his chin.“Excuse me, I apologize for any awkwardness. I’m looking for a Mrs. Kovack or a Mrs. Grissom. My name is Alex De Montavallo and I’m from the National Gallery--” he began, all the while captivated by those azure eyes. The lashes around them were naturally thick and dark; Alex had a quick impulsive desire to feel them flutter against his cheek, but continued on, “—I’m here on a matter of art theft.”

The woman cocked her head, staring at him carefully, not missing anything from the top of his head to his feet in a thorough scrutiny that made him want to fidget, although he fought it. His hair, he knew, was a bit longer than most, touching his collar now, and the goatee was a bit of an affectation . . .

“You loo’ like Challs d first.” The woman commented after a moment. Alex blinked. And then she held out her hand and smiled at him. “I’m Olibia Grissom, co-onah of Bisionary.”

Alex by nature and temperament was a cynical man now; in his forties and well aware of the failings and foibles of life, and certainly not susceptible to naiveté anymore, but when the woman in front of him smiled, combined with the lure of those luminous eyes, he felt something lurch hard in his chest. Dumbly he took her cool little hand in his, never dropping his gaze as he drank her in.

She was petite, and beautifully proportioned as such, with the natural grace of a delicate woman. Her mahogany hair was clipped in an elfin cut, the curls giving her a spritely look. 

She wore the shorts he’d so helplessly admired, and a pink sleeveless haltertop knotted under her full cleavage, baring a tanned stomach. Alex felt faint.

“Yes, I know about Charles—I am related to him in some obscure line of cousins . . .” he found himself prattling. The woman watched him carefully, and in a quick flash he understood, and slowed down a little. She nodded. “But that’s not important. I need to talk to you about a Battaglia.”

He still hadn’t released her hand, and when Olivia began to gently work it free of his, Alex reluctantly let go.

A smear of white paint sat on his palm, and she pinkened. “Ohh!”

Turpentine and a rag appeared, and by the time Alex had gotten his hand cleaned, the boy and Ernie had wandered into the gallery; immediately the dog trotted over to him, tail in joyous salute.

“I see you met my mom,” the boy commented, passing a bottle of Coca-cola to Olivia. She then moved her hands in a swift series of gestures towards the teenager, and once again Alex felt his chest tighten.

She was married.

So was he, in name only, but still the deep disappointment sank his spirits until he glanced at her moving hands and saw her elegant fingers were bare, with no trace of white around the third one of her left hand. It was a small thing, but hope rose once more, and then he felt the cold reassuring snuffle of the dog’s muzzle against his wrist. Alex took that as a good omen and accepted a bottle from the boy, who held out his own hand to shake, palm still cold from the sodas.

“I’m Gil and this is my mom. She’s deaf, but she’s good at reading lips if you remember to keep looking at her. She wants to know if you’d like to take some clothes off.”

“I beg your pardon?” Alex wasn’t going to admit that the idea had definite appeal, but not in the company of a boy and his dog. 

Clearly Gil was on the verge of laughing.  
“Your coat. She told me you’re going to cook if you don’t take the jacket off at least. And there’s so much paint around here she’s worried you’ll get some on your suit.” He clarified before taking a huge swig from the bottle in his other hand.

And so Alex found himself in shirtsleeves sitting at an Ames table, earnestly explaining his mission to the audience of Olivia Grissom and her son. Ernie rested his chin on the edge of the table, alert for edibles that might appear at any moment. The Battaglia painting in question, _Two Shepherds on the Hills of Verona_ , had been stolen nearly six months earlier and The National Gallery had been tracking it through various auctions and sales.

Olivia asked good questions and the longer he listened to her the easier it was to figure out what she was saying. Unfortunately, the painting hadn’t passed through the gallery.

“Mom and Mrs. Kovack deal mostly in local artists and twentieth century landscapes and seascapes,” Gil told him. Olivia nodded at this, her bright gaze turning back to Alex and lingering.

He gave a nod and a sigh. “It’s slow going. All I know for certain is that the painting left Argentina for Los Angeles around the seventh of last month, and that the customs at the airport in Los Angeles had it shipped to a gallery somewhere between Malibu and Monterey. I’ve been moving up the coast on the search and it’s odd but I can sense I’m getting close.”

Olivia thought furiously; Alex could practically see the cogs of her mind moving as her expressions raced over her face. She snatched up a pencil and impatiently gestured for Gil to push the legal pad towards her. He did, and she scribbled something across the page, then handed the page to Alex.

“My friend Pete Morraine is having a party on Saturday; big affair with lots of artists and patrons. You might pick up a lead there. Someone’s bound to know someone who deals in eighteenth century Italian art,” Alex read out loud.

Gil shot his mother a glance. “I thought you weren’t going to that, Mom. You said Pete was a bore and his buddy Max was a sexist pig,” Gil commented before sipping more Coke. His remark earned him a motherly glare that didn’t faze him at all; Alex bit back his amusement at the clear dynamics between mother and son being played out. Olivia’s hands flew in quick signs that first made her son grin, then falter a bit as he looked at Alex.

“I’m sorry for being rude,” Gil recited quickly, his tone making it clear that the apology was an order from his mother, “And I’m supposed to tell you that she’d be happy to take you along as a guest if you think the party would be worth your time.”

Alex looked at Olivia and smiled, choosing his words slowly and carefully. “I’d be delighted to accompany you and your husband to the party.”

Her eyes widened and she shook her head so vigorously that Alex couldn’t help but admire the bouncing shift of her cleavage in the tied-off shirt. 

Next to him, Gil laughed softly.“My mom’s divorced, Mr. De Montavallo. I was supposed to subtly tell you that too.”

This time Alex was the one sending a slightly stern look at the boy; Gil reddened a bit sensing his amusement wasn’t reciprocated. Then Alex managed a soft smile. “Thank you, Gil.”

After half an hour more of pleasantries and logistics for the party, Alex reluctantly left his card, said his goodbyes and departed the gallery, feeling a lightness he hadn’t experienced in years. On impulse, he slipped into the florist shop, and smiled at the dark-eyed woman behind the glass counter.

“I’d like to send a dozen blue-eyed daisies please, to the gallery next door.”

“For Signora Olivia?” the woman smiled sweetly, pushing a card towards Alex. He pulled out a Mont Blanc pen from his inner jacket pocket and nodded.

“Sì. La trovo deliziosa,” he admitted with a shy smile. The woman laughed softly and took his signed card, patting it gently.

“In that case, you’re getting the very best, I assure you.”

*** *** ***

“And of course she was right,” Alex concluded, his charcoal stick sweeping on the page. Sara smiled broadly, the gap in her teeth showing.

“Oh you can’t leave it THERE! What happened? Did you get the painting back? And when did you know she was the one?”

Alex smiled at Sara’s impatient questions. He blew on the pad then let his dark gaze twinkle at her as he turned the picture in her direction. She laughed.

Caught on the page was a sketch of long-whiskered Figaro sprawled in the sun, his furry belly up, paws splayed in sleep. Alex had captured his warm charm and better cat features perfectly, from his long whiskers to the graceful curve of his tail. Sara took the pad and admired the work as Alex brushed his hands off.

“As for what happened at the party and afterwards—well, that’s a story for another time, my dear. I see Gil’s returning . . .”

He was, followed by Olivia, who looked annoyed but resigned. Grissom sighed loudly as he crossed the lawn and approached the two of them.

“Okay, Ecklie can’t press charges since no one will admit to seeing him get hit, not even the umpire.”

“Not even the other team?” Sara asked. Grissom gave a helpless shrug as she laughed. Alex rose and offered Olivia his seat.  
She took it and the sketch, studying it while Grissom continued. “But the game’s been rescheduled for next week, and I’m sure Mom will be back in California by then, far, far away from potential mayhem and lawsuits.”

His mother smiled, promising nothing, and Sara rose up, taking Grissom’s hand and leading him back towards the kitchen. As they stepped in, Sara reached up and touched Grissom’s forehead, brushing an errant curl back.

She sighed. “Talk. What happened?”

“No one will say a thing, but I did get the clear message that she’s not welcome at the rematch. And I have to agree with that,” Grissom winced again.

Sara slid her arms around him and hugged tight. “Face it pal, she’s not the only one around here with a temper. What did you think you were doing, charging Paul like that?”

“No, now that was different! He hit you deliberately!" Grissom growled, looking down at her. Sara loved the intensity in his eyes as he studied her. She preened a little.

“I know. But it was pretty wild to see you go after him. I can’t say most people didn’t notice THAT.”

Grissom tilted his head, looking both chagrined and stubborn, and Sara couldn’t take the charm of that, so she kissed him, smiling through it. His arms slipped around her tightly, and as Grissom hugged her he sighed.

“I can’t stand to see you hurt, Acushla. Not now, not ever. And certainly not on purpose. You once asked if I could ever kill someone. At that time I said I couldn’t answer the question, but now--I can. And God help me, I could, Sara.”

She hugged him harder. Much harder.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

 

Greg looked across the lab through the glass walls towards Brass’s office where Clem sat industriously typing. He knew from her perspective she couldn’t see him very well; the angles and glare made it hard to catch sight of much more than brief images of people in the halls and beyond. But from where he stood, waiting to collect a DNA reading, he had a perfect view of her golden spiral curls and concentrating face as she clacked away on the keyboard of a laptop.

He wanted to straighten things between them. Since that awful morning at the hospital, Clem avoided him with the single-minded intensity of the terminally embarrassed, and Greg hadn’t had a chance to apologize. He’d tried leaving her a note in her office mailbox, and tucking one under the windshield wiper of her car, but found them all returned, unopened. He wished he could shrug it off, but deep down, Greg knew it mattered. Maybe more than it should, really.

His mother was much better, walking with a cane, and in two more weeks Uncle Peter would be flying back home. Wyatt was doing good, and the case against Sondra and Wayne Dushalski, her fellow psych patient and accomplice was firmly underway, with more than enough evidence to make sure neither she nor he would be out again anytime soon. And yet—

Greg still didn’t feel completely . . . safe. He understood Nick’s jumpiness now, those months after that stalker Nigel had crashed in on him, that unending uneasiness. The hell of it was, familiarity of the lab felt comforting, and being around Clem helped too, but ever since that morning at Desert Palms she’d been evading him and that hurt. Carefully he collected the printout and took a deep, fortifying breath. Time to take action.

Moving carefully, he worked his way around the lab, taking a meandering route until he arrived at Brass’s door and opened it. Clem looked up, startled, her brown eyes on him as he dredged up a smile.

“Hey Clem. I really need to talk to you,” he began. She gestured to the keyboard and shrugged, miming how incredibly busy she was. Greg pulled up a rolling typist chair and straddled it, looking at her patiently. She tried to ignore him, but he didn’t miss the hard swallow she gave, and he noticed she’d typed a row of nonsense as her fingers clattered away.

Greg sighed. “Look, I’m really sorry about the way I sounded and what you heard in the hospital, okay? It’s been kind of a rough time at the Sanders house, and while I love my mom, she does have this habit of trying to fix everything in my life. I didn’t mean to sound like I didn’t like you, all right? I do. You’re very cool.”

Clem risked a peek at him; Greg smiled gently, resting his chin on his elbows on the back of the chair. She gave a big sigh, then proceeded to erase the line of garbage from her report. Skipping a line, she typed something and pointed to it; Greg read it out loud.

“So does this mean the wedding’s off? Ohhh, funny girl,” he chided with a grin, adding, “I guess it depends on the whole going out, falling in love getting engaged thing. Not that I’m actually one to get the order of things RIGHT of course, but—“

Clem’s fingers moved, and another line appeared on the screen. //We’re not going out, Greg. Too risky.//

“Too risky?” That hurt, in a weird way. He shot her a questioning look. The thought of actually dating Clem hadn’t consciously occurred to him, but to be shot down prematurely stung a little.

She shook her head decidedly. //Risky. We don’t have a lot in common, Greg. And what we DO have in common is pretty slim.// she typed, a tad defiantly.

Greg scowled at that. “Oh I beg to differ, Clementine. We both like your mom’s cooking, and the Moody Blues, and playing practical jokes on Hodges, and long walks in the rain . . ."

Clem arched an eyebrow at him, typing, //Las Vegas is a desert, Greg. Not a lot of rain.//

“Moonlight then,” he revised cheerfully. “Nightshift means a lot of moonlight, through the neon.”

//You and I have NEVER walked through the moonlight, neon-tinted or otherwise. Besides, you’ve got dozens of other girls in this lab who’d be better for you than// Clem hesitated while Greg focused on the screen. Finally she typed, //a handicapped black chick, okay?//

Greg shot her an incredulous look, his mouth opening slightly as he blinked. Slowly, he reached out a hand, and laid it very, very gently on her thin wrist. Clem stared at her keyboard.

“The only handicap you’ve got is thinking you’re anything less than terrific. You laugh at my jokes, you keep people from stealing my coffee, you make sure my cell phone’s charged, you get a lot of the lab paperwork moving in all the right directions, and on top of it all, you’re hot.”

Her mouth dropped open slightly; Greg ducked his head in wry amusement at Clem’s reaction, his grin flashing out, but she shook her head at him, and frowned. Greg held her gaze, trying to make her smile, but she didn’t, and after a few seconds his own faltered. “Aw come on, it’s the truth.”

Clem shook her head again, hitting the backspace on her computer, removing everything she’d typed in the last minute; Greg waited, but she didn’t put her fingers back on the keyboard, so he stood up and leaned on the monitor.

“Clem . . .” he intoned in a soft, slightly hurt voice. She cocked her head at him, and he saw the tiniest quiver of her beautiful bottom lip. In that instant, the luscious thought of nibbling it first hit him, HARD. A flush crossed his face, and for Greg, everything in that single moment came into clarity with a delighted jolt that shocked him even as his eyes widened. “Wow. You are hot. This is amazing. Totally. I—”

Before he could say another word, the office door opened, and Brass stepped in, followed by a lean mop-haired figure clutching a huge sketchpad. There seemed to be several pencils and pens behind her ears and her spectacles were tiny frameless rectangles of pink glass.

“ . . . And this is my office. You’ll check in at the front desk, and come here, or the break room until we have a case you’re cleared to work on. Hi guys, this is the newest sketch artist trainee, Akaroa Lyttleton. She’ll be putting in her 80 hours here and with the CSIs on various cases.” Brass rumbled. “Clem, are you finished with the Stewart report?”

Guiltily, the other young woman shook her head and turned back to the computer. Greg ran a hand through his hair and managed a sheepish grin at Brass, who merely stared back at him. “Harassing the help, Sanders?”

“No, just discussing the temperature. Explaining to Clem about heat and where you find it,” Greg responded as he turned and headed for the door. Lyttleton watched him go and glanced at Brass, who shrugged.

“One of our youngest CSIs, Greg Sanders. Sort of a diamond in the Silly Putty. This is Clementine, one of our interns from the Criminal Justice program out at NLVU."

Lyttleton shook hands with her as Brass added, “Come on, I’ll show you the labs and the morgue, and then we can get you working on a back file case for starters.”

*** *** ***

Sara brushed the dirt off her hands and looked down at the turned earth, feeling an odd sense of satisfaction. She’d never given much though to gardening before. Most places she’d lived didn’t have any space available for it, and in any case, she’d spent too many hours on her hands and knees collecting evidence to be enthralled by doing it voluntarily. And yet, as she glanced over the raised planter boxes along the side of the yard, seeing the rich dark earth neatly patted around the young tomato plants, she couldn’t help feeling a surge of contentment. The spicy scent of their leaves, and the tiny promise of the small green pearls on the stalks left her grinning.

She hosed her hands off under the spigot on the side of the house and neatly set the tools against the back wall of the garage, wondering if she could talk Grissom into getting a potting shed put up there. Not that she was going to make this a hobby or anything, but with six tomato plants in, along with a few rows of zucchini, at least they’d have something homegrown to go with dinner by late spring. Her scan of the backyard stopped at the big cottonwood, and she glanced up into the branches. The tree house still stood there, weathered boards bleached light grey with age. Sara’s mouth twitched, and she wondered if the aluminum ladder was tall enough . . . it might be worth checking.

Quietly she opened the side door of the garage. Grissom was inside, his back to her. She could hear him speaking; curious, she listened for a moment.

“ . . . Because despite all years in blind, foolish denial you managed to love me anyway. I know now that you and you alone ARE the beat of my heart. Please, Sara, marry me.”  
She held her breath, startled and elated all in a quick jolt of joyous jubilation through her chest. Grissom’s voice was strained, impassioned and endearingly soft; the answering puzzled ‘mrrrow’ forced her to muffle her laugh against the wet palm of one hand.

“Good enough, Figaro? It’s not like I get a second crack at this. No, you don’t get the ring, you’re just Sara’s stand-in. Let GO of the box, cat,” came the slightly frustrated tone. Sara backed out and rattled the doorknob; when she entered this time, Grissom spun and blinked at her, managing a mild little smile. He was decidedly casual in a Chicago Cubs sweatshirt and ancient jeans. He hadn’t brushed his hair after his shower, and it curled damply around his head.

“Hey. Listen, do you think the ladder’s big enough to reach your tree house?” Sara asked in as casual a tone as she could muster. Her heart was still beating fast, and it took all her willpower not to peek at Grissom’s hands or pockets. Figaro leaped off the top of the ant farm and strolled over, winding a hello figure eight around Sara’s ankles. She bent to pet him, hiding her grin.

Grissom cleared his throat. “Possibly. We should dismantle it anyway. After thirty years, it’s probably not very stable.” he murmured, turning to the wall where the ladder hung horizontally on hooks. “I’ll get the ladder and you get a crowbar and a hammer.”

“Right. Grissom?” Sara asked, unable to give up on a chance to tease him ever so slightly. The fact that she’d caught him rehearsing touched the vulnerable place deep inside of her, and Sara felt giddy at the sight of the small square lump in his back pocket as he reached for the ladder.

“Yes?”

“I think some of your ants are getting out—“

“Oh. Oh--“

Leaving him to deal with the logistics, Sara made her way out to the car and picked up the tools, Figaro trailing after her. He jumped up on the car seat and Sara petted him lightly.

“Stand-in, huh? Well next time you two practice that, the answer is yes.” She told the cat, who stretched out his chin to be stroked, his purr deep and satisfied. Sara laughed at the little cat. “So clue me in here—what’s it look like?”

Figaro blinked, and said nothing. Sara rolled her eyes. “Not talking? Well let me remind you who controls the can opener around here pal—“

His ears twitched slightly at the words ‘can opener’ but other than that, the purring continued. Sara picked him up along with the hammer and crowbar, then set him in the driveway and slammed the door of the car shut again with her hip. They walked back between the garage and the house, then into the back yard. Sara saw Grissom had managed to get the ladder out and set up against the heavy trunk of the cottonwood tree. 

He waved her over. “Not that it’s a safe thing to do, but we could each go up one side of the ladder,” Sara pointed out. Grissom shot her a slightly exasperated look, but she merely shrugged.

He sighed. “You want to see it.”

“Damn right I do. The inner sanctum of Kid Grissom. It could shed light on so many things about you—did you carve your name up there?” Sara grinned.

Grissom cocked his head. “I can’t remember. I used to sleep out here a couple of nights a week when it was really hot. I had a bucket on a clothesline to haul things up, and my aunt would fill it with oranges and deviled ham sandwiches wrapped in wax paper.”

“Clever—any other kids come over to play?”   
Sara asked as she expertly began ascending the non-rung side of the ladder.

Grissom slowly mounted the other side. “A few summers I had a buddy, Ed Brewster from about three houses up. He was about two years older, but not really into the same stuff I was. We mostly got together for fireworks around the Fourth.”

Sara had almost reached the platform of the tree house; along the underside she could see the rusted nails and carefully set wooden braces that stabilized it. Grissom followed her gaze and gave a gentle smile. “This tree house was put together by two of my uncles, Herb and Joe. They used to build their own hunting blinds, so at the time, this was amazingly stable.”

“It looks sturdy—what’s that?” Sara climbed a support strut higher on the ladder and pointed her chin towards the back of the platform. 

Grissom blinked, clearly surprised. “Ohhh. The cooler. I had completely forgotten about it.”  
An ancient metal cooler sat nestled in a corner, under a disintegrating tarp still bearing the emblem of the Boy Scouts of America on it, and Grissom reached one long arm to snag the ancient material. The handful he grabbed tore away from the rest, and Sara laughed.

Grissom winced. “I think I just disproved the lifetime guarantee.”

“Considering how you’ve abused it, I don’t think you’ll be getting a refund soon. What’s in the cooler?” Sara asked, stretching up to help him pull on the metal handle on one end of the box. Grissom drew in a breath from the exertion; it was heavier than it looked.

“Ancient bottles of Orange Crush, I’d guess. Maybe my binoculars . . .” He ran a thumb under the fliplock catch, pushing hard to make it work through the heavy layer of rust on it. 

Sara snorted. “Don’t cut yourself—you HAVE had a tetanus shot in the last decade, right?”

“Yes,” the creak of the lid slithered through the air, and Sara eagerly peeked into the inner recesses of the cooler.

She laughed. “Oh my God. Grissom!”

He was speechless, but memory and recognition flashed across his face, and he could only stare helplessly as Sara reached in and pulled out the faded, rumpled, topmost copy from the magazine stack. She was giggling so hard she was in danger of falling off the ladder.

“The stash—my brother kept HIS in a shoebox under some baseball gear in his closet; my mom wasn’t tall enough to find it. Geez, talk about a time capsule!” she chortled, looking at the sultry-eyed brunette Playmate in the centerfold. Grissom closed his eyes as the heat radiated off his face, but there was the beginning of a smirk across his face.

“Be kind, Sara—it’s ancient personal history, and every man has his memories.”

“I think you mean mammeries—Sheesh! You could sell these issues on Ebay and clean up, babe. Where did you GET them anyway? I can’t see your aunt picking you up a copy while she was out shopping.”

Grissom did manage to grin and took the issue out of Sara’s hands, setting it gently back on top of the other four magazines. “Raided from the dumpster behind the barbershop. I was looking for treasure and found flesh, which for a hormonally overcharged adolescent is a gold mine in itself. Didn’t YOU ever go through a phase where all you could think about was sex?”

“Yes,” Sara admitted with a blushing grin. “Although I guess girls are either more discreet about it, or we subliminate it into more romantic fantasies most of the time. Although to be completely honest, Grissom, before I actually HAD any sex, I thought the naked guys in Playgirl looked sort of . . . sheepish. And of course in the photos, they weren’t permitted to have erections—why are you looking at me like that?” she trailed off at Grissom’s expression. He looked both amused and slightly shocked, and Sara blushed a little.

“I’m trying to picture you, the smart seventh grader, looking at Playgirl.” He confessed with a tender smirk. Sara rolled her eyes, clutching the tree house platform. In one graceful move, she hoisted herself up and sat on it. She swung her feet over the edge and tossed her hair out of her eyes.

“Lisa Ranadoor’s slumber party. She lived with her divorced mom, who let us drink paper cups of Boone Hill wine and read her copies of Playgirl in an attempt to bond, I guess. Anyway, we all got to checking out the pictorials, and I wasn’t as impressed as some of the other girls. I knew what boners looked like because I had a brother, so when I said something they all thought I was some sort of experienced expert.”

Grissom’s gaze never left her face, and Sara sighed deeply.

“And?” he prompted.

Sara arched an eyebrow at him. “And what? Was I an expert? Of course not. I’d secretly read my mom’s copy of The Joy of Sex, and Tom had a collection of stills from Behind the Green Door, so anything I learned was from observation, not participation. At least, not until a few years later, which was good, because by then I had fewer impulsive urges and more common sense.”

“Excuse me, but aren’t you the woman who told me she’d engaged in intercourse in the bathroom of a plane during a transcontinental flight?” Grissom prodded in a knowing tone.

Sara’s blush renewed itself and she bit her lip. “You weren’t supposed to _remember_ that,” she muttered. 

He laughed. Carefully, Grissom climbed the uppermost rung and slid onto the tree house platform beside her. The dappled sunlight danced on the branches and boards, and the warm breeze shifted around them. Grissom pushed the cooler out of the way.

“It doesn’t make me jealous, Sara. It did at first I think, but not now. Anything you did before we met is a part of what has shaped you into the person you are—the good, the bad, the intimate. I was lucky that my first experience with sex was positive, despite the potential to be otherwise. Was . . . yours?”

Sara looked at Grissom, seeing both fear and tender curiosity in his blue eyes. A rush of memory came back, of eyes almost as blue, and she smiled, reaching a hand to stroke the side of Grissom’s face.

“Yes. He was my rival in the Academic Bowl my senior year in high school, Art Hobson. He was in a wheelchair because he was so weak most of the time from chemo for his leukemia. I had a crush on him, but of course I couldn’t let him know because he’d think I was taking pity on him and he hated that. Bright guy, probably could have taken the aerospace industry single-handedly . . .”

“He died.” Grissom deduced. Sara nodded.   
She looked off through the tree branches, a sad smile on her face. “Yeah. We were teamed for the Bowl in October. Had to practice on Saturday mornings, usually at the Inn because I didn’t have a way to get to his house. But three times—I borrowed Tom’s bike and made the ten-mile ride out to Arthur’s house down near the cove. He was big. Husky. Should have been playing football, but each session of treatment took a little more out of him. Most the time he was fighting with me over strategy and format, correcting my math and giving me hell over not thinking the problems through before I answered. That was when other people were around. But when we were alone . . .”

Grissom’s hand came down on hers, covering it warmly, and Sara blinked a little at the comfort. She shot him a sidelong glance, fluttering her eyelashes at him and he managed a smirk.

“—I get the idea, yes. I’m glad it was a good experience.” He hastily told her, “But maybe I’ve overestimated my ability to be objective about your past.”

Sara nodded, vastly amused at his confession. Down below, at the foot of the ladder, Figaro was meowing up at them, circling the ladder. Grissom looked around.

“Still sturdy. I’ll have to let Uncle Herb know it’s held up all this time. I think we ought to leave it.”

Sara stood up and slowly walked across the platform, holding onto some of the upper branches as she scanned the view between the branches. She made a soft sound of approval. Grissom lay back, crossing his arms behind his head, staring up through the top of the tree.  
“Wow, I can see all the way to the Luxor from here. I bet the lights at night are gorgeous,” came Sara’s comment. Grissom said nothing, until a soft ‘floof’ of material landed on his face. He pulled away the still warm shirt and looked up at Sara, who stood there in her bra, grinning at him.

“Sara . . .”

“Hey, you started it with your old issues up here,” she teased, doing a slow striptease out of her bra. Grissom propped himself up on one elbow and gazed up at her, watching her dramatically fling the garment over the side of the tree house. Unfortunately, it caught on the end of a branch, and dangled among the leaves, white and unmistakable.

Grissom laughed. Sara scowled, then broke into giggles herself, crossing her hands over her chest in a coy gesture.

“I guess it blends in—it IS a cottonwood,” Grissom pointed out, making Sara snort a little. He beckoned her down and she dropped to her hands and knees.

“In the mood?”

“Yes, AND I’d prefer the neighbors didn’t get an eyeful of you.”

“Ack!” Sara ducked lower, pressing against Grissom, who promptly took advantage of her distraction, cupping one rounded breast in his palm. Sara squirmed a little, trying to look around.

“Sheesh, Mr. Midori isn’t outside is he? I’d hate to flash him after all those times he was nice enough to bring our cans back up the driveway.”

Grissom undid the fly of her jeans, and slid a warm hand in to cup the curls of her mound as he breathed in her ear.

“He’s at work, and on the other side, the Wilkersons are on vacation. Our illicit moment is safe.” He murmured, kissing her neck. Sara shifted, her hands tugging at the buttons of his shirt in happy response. Fumbling through their kisses, Sara managed to lose her jeans and panties, then kicked her sandals off over the side of the tree house. Grissom leaned back, his spine against the trunk of the tree, and shimmied out of his jeans, tossing them on top of his sneakers near the cooler. Sara swallowed hard at his impish smile; in the late afternoon sunlight amid the tree branches he looked a bit like drawings she’d seen of Pan.

“You’re right about the view,” he commented, eyes wandering over her with vast appreciation. Sara nodded, straddling his lap, feeling the happy throb of his cock between their bellies as she kissed Grissom. He tasted especially good, and she blissed out when he sucked on her bottom lip.

“We’re going to get splinters,” He told her, his eyes bright and hot. Sara responded to that by sinking her teeth lightly into his neck, making him groan with pleasure. His hands slid down her bare spine, caressing it possessively, and Sara rubbed herself along the ridge of his cock, feeling very primitive and happy. 

Grissom lifted her arm and licked the smooth pit, tickling and startling her at the same time.

“Hey!”

“The armpit is one of the main sources of human scent. I love yours. It’s completely female and highly arousing, Sara.” As if to vouch for his words, the renewed throbs of his prick against her fur made her laugh softly.

“Yeah, well I love your hair, right at the nape of your neck. It’s the perfect smell of you and I’d know it anywhere, Grissom. So if I ever find it where’s it’s not supposed to be . . .” she growled, meaning for it to be playful. Her words came out a bit more fiercely than she intended though, and Grissom caught her face in his hands, bringing her gaze to lock with his.

“He who loves without jealousy does not truly love,” he quoted softly, adding, “It goes both ways, Sara. Just as I’m yours, you’re mine.”

“Damn right.” She agreed throatily, sliding a hand down between them to encircle his cock. He smiled against her cheek, letting his fingers stroke over her skin. Sara licked his chest, her tongue sliding down the shallow groove in the middle, moving south. Grissom let his head drop back and gave himself over to the sensation of her mouth. The feel of the tree at his back and Sara kisses all over him thrilled his skin, and Grissom felt himself flex in her grip. Their height, the lovely reckless sensuality of the moment all combined to leave him feeling urgently horny.

“Sara—“

“Shhhh, busy, “ she muttered a second before pressing her tongue against the slick head of his cock. Grissom’s hands slid through her hair, gripping it suddenly as a surge of lust forced a low groan out of him. Enjoying the thrill of his full attention, Sara took her time, focusing her attention on what got the best reaction from him, and mentally filing it away.

Grissom seemed to like everything. Kisses, licks, slow sucks, soft strokes, slippery twists—nearly everything brought some sort of positive reaction, from shivers to groans, but when Sara began to hum, his gentle grip on her hair tightened.

“Stop. I’m close, Sara, stop—“ he whispered desperately, tugging on her locks. She let him slide out of her mouth with a soft popping sound and looked up at him, eyes bright with a smug sexuality. Grissom’s chest heaved a bit and he gritted his teeth. “God . . .”

“Note to self, Grissom very responsive to hummers.”

“Appreciative. The word is appreciative, so come here and I’ll show you how much so,” he growled, reaching for her as he shakily stood up. Sara glanced up the length of his body, grinning widely.

“Yep, it’s a hell of a view, babe.”

Grissom caught her wrist and pulled her to her feet, then turned her to the central trunk, pinning her against it with his chest. Between her thighs she felt the slick prodding of his cock. Grissom took her arms and wrapped them around the trunk, then nipped her ear. “The bark is rough. Push back against me so you don’t get scraped.”

“Grissssoooohhhhh—“ Sara’s protest slid into a gasp of pleasure as he spread her thighs slightly and thrust forward, sliding deep. He gripped her hips and leaned over her slightly bent body, his laugh of delight low and slightly breathless.

“I love your ass, Sara. It’s defiant and perky and renews the spark of my lust every time I look at it. In fact, the whole Sidle package, from your perfect chest, to this long sexy back ending in these sweet cheeks . . .” he groaned, thrusting.

Sara arched her spine, gasping when one of his hands slid around her hipbone to rub in firm circles around the fluff of her mound. She rocked her hips back and forth, catching his rhythm, her fingers clenching on the bark of the tree as her pleasure flared up. The wet slap of flesh mingled with her little moans, and under their feet, the boards gave a slight creak at the shifting weight. Sara’s fingers gripped the bark more tightly, as she felt Grissom’s cock swell, and shift angle slightly. 

He grunted. The heat and power of him looming over her, pounding into her, rubbing her—it all coalesced into a slow exquisite ripple of sensual frenzy that left her gasping even as her body clenched in a series of pulsing throbs.

Grissom braced a hand on the tree, steadying himself, and shifted his other hand around Sara’s waist as he pressed kisses on her damp nape, licking it before he nuzzled into her hair. “Ohhhh Sara. Sex up here is much better with _two_ people, honey. MUCH better.”

She turned her head and laughed weakly, brown eyes soft and just returning to focus. “I bet your uncles never imagined THIS scenario when they built it.”

Grissom slid free of her body, his expression thoughtful and sated before his grin flashed out at her. Gently, he bent down to pick up his shirt, carefully wiping Sara’s inner thighs and planting a kiss on her rounded rump, just under her hormone patch.

“I don’t know about that—the Sullivans are a lusty bunch. Testosterone doesn’t run on that side of my family, it gallops. Hence cousins in the double digits.”

“Scared of your family,” she muttered, reaching for her jeans. Grissom laughed and wrapped his arms around her, sighing contentedly.

“Me too. Think we ought to elope?”

Sara’s heart skipped a few beats, but she managed a soft smile. “Oh I don’t know, Grissom—do you think there’s anywhere in this sin-soaked, cynical, gambling-addicted town where we might POSSIBLY find a place to get married?”

He smiled, kissing her forehead and handing her jeans over.

“Your call, Acushla. I’ll show up where ever you choose with a ring and thirty-five dollars—that’s all I’m expected to do.”

“Oh no you don’t!” she lightly punched his arm. “You are NOT getting out of any planning, pal. I’m not going to referee between your mom and mine on this alone!”

“Sara—“

“It’s a new era, Grissom, and men are expected to participate more fully in this stuff.”

“Sara—“

“And anyway, this isn’t a done deal you know. I’m still expecting the full proposal on bended knee scenario so don’t you dare make an assumption I’m going to say yes.”

“Sara, honey, are you done?” Grissom asked softly, his eyes bright blue. She slowly nodded. He sighed. “Good. For the record I was teasing, of course I’ll help, you’ll get the proper proposal but we have a more serious problem here.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. We knocked the ladder over.”

Both of them looked down over the edge to the grass far below, where Figaro was looking back up at them as he sat on the edge of the ladder.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

 

Scrap by scrap, the pictures started to appear. They were usually left on the break room table; mostly little caricatures and cartoons. The day shift began posting them, finding a corner of the bulletin board nearest the coffeepot, an honored location. Most were easily recognizable: Atwater with mustaches so long he was in danger of tripping over them; a top-heavy showgirl who’d been processed and was still talked about in the men’s locker room as “Most Likely to Be Repeatedly Dusted For Fingerprints”; a very good parody titled “10 best uses for latex gloves above and beyond a crime scene.”

Only a few people knew who the artist was, but all the shifts agreed it was a bright spot in the workweek to be able to see when the next drawing went up, and old favorites were distributed by lottery in the coffee kitty. Sara nabbed her beloved: a lovely shot of the entire night shift in full minstrel black face, looking startled and pissed off, with Greg off to one side, wiping his nose with a hankie. The caption read: ‘Allergies, fingerprint powder and Sanders DO NOT MIX WELL.’

Rumor had it that if you left a request written on the bottom of one of the coffee cups, you might get a picture. Warrick was the first to attempt it, and when the lovely drawing of Catherine in full-stripper mode dancing on a courtroom stand with the caption “Nothing but the skin so help me God” appeared, fierce bidding broke out. The original disappeared, but a few grainy Xeroxes could still be found, one of them glued for a few days to a stall door in the men’s room. That is, until CSI Willows stormed in and removed it, amid yelps and panicked men huddling at their urinals. The laser glare of Catherine’s eyes ended any half-hearted protests about either her unannounced entrance or the loss of the picture.

After that, requests were more discreet, and if anyone had something slightly racier in mind, a note dropped through a certain locker grille would generally result in a return locker drop off. Smug smiles and clustered coffee breaks were the result, and somewhere down the line, everyone had a suspicion that there were some interesting etchings of nearly everyone out there.

“I for one do NOT want to see a nude shot of Hodges, man.” Nick announced, stirring his coffee with more force than needed. Warrick gave him an eye roll of agreement. Over on the sofa, Lyttleton, Clem and Jacqui were deciding what to order from a Chinese menu; they looked up at the two men and grinned. Jacqui lifted her chin.

“On the other hand, a nice full-body shot of Bad, Bad Warrick Brown—“ she suggested. He turned his head and tried to glare at her, but his blush was apparent.

“Weren’t we all just forced to take that seminar on sexual harassment, Ms. Franco? It wasn’t meant as a how-to course, either.”

“More’s the pity,” Lyttleton added under her breath. Clem snorted at that, and motioned to Nick. Grabbing her whiteboard she wrote something and passed it to the other two women, who laughed. Nick, suspecting the joke was on him strode over and grabbed it deftly, lifting it out of their hands.

“I’ll just take this, thank you---Aw man—Different Stokes, har, har, har, yeah like that’s REALLY funny, Clem. I liked you better when we were sticking dead body parts in your mailbag.”

In reply she stuck her tongue out at him; Nick handed her the board back and managed a grin. “Hey, don’t offer that if you aren’t going to use it.”

“Oh now who’s the harasser NOW?” Jacqui hooted. Lyttleton blinked behind her rose glasses and murmured, “Perhaps we ought to tell Judy.”

Nick looked stricken, panicked. He shook his head vigorously. “No, don’t. It was a joke, okay? A bad one. Just—let it go.”

“Hey Nick, in the war of the sexes, you’ve been taken prisoner,” Warrick grumbled, tossing his used paper coffee cup in a wobbly shot towards the garbage can next to the doorway. At that moment Grissom walked in and in mid-air batted the cup into the can without even looking up as he stepped through. 

“All right, we have the annual inventory of evidence to get through, people. For the next two weeks all shifts are going through the year’s casefiles, making sure everything collected and noted is actually there. We’re going alphabetically, so dayshift has A through J, swing has K through R and we’ve got S through Z. Anyone not out on a call or processing an active case needs to be lending a hand with the checklists. It’s a slow night, so Nick, Catherine, you get the one call that’s come in, a robbery at the Atlantis gift shop. Everyone else, checklists.”

“Joy, joy, “ Warrick muttered, slowly rising from his chair.

As everyone filed out, Sara came down the hall and stood by Grissom’s shoulder. He looked at her and although his expression as mildly neutral, she could see the spark of concern in his eyes. He lifted his chin a little.

“How’s the shoulder?” As if he hadn’t kissed the scrapes along her blade only a few hours ago, applied antibiotic ointment and muttered apologies the entire time.

She shrugged, and pretended to wince, making him twitch a little. “I’m fine, relax. I’ve been scraped by rougher things than tree bark.” In a lower voice meant for his ears only she added, “Like beards.”

“Sara, I’m sorry,” he murmured for the twentieth time.

She tossed her head back and laughed softly. “It was worth it—to be lowered down out of a tree house on a rope you made out of our jeans—priceless. You didn’t know I’d bump the trunk.”

“Better a scrape than a broken neck.” He reminded her, his expression clearly full of the memory of the two of them in underwear. “Still—I’ll make it up to you.”

“Now that’s an offer I can’t refuse. Dinner at Waffle World? I’ll sneak some syrup home.”

Grissom reddened slightly and nodded.

*** *** ***

Three hours later, Sara opened the fifteenth box, and glanced over at Clem. The girl was looking at the checklist, running a finger down it. She held up seven fingers and Sara grinned.  
“Seven bagged items, how many samples?” A flash of two hands and a single finger. “Eleven, okay, and the name of the case?”

Clem held up the clipboard. //Case 1543443/H/ Yuan Brothers 4/22/04 // she’d written neatly on it. Sara nodded, a gleam in her eye.

“Ooooh yeah, now this was definitely one I remember. We had these three elderly brothers who were all killed with this sort of super Viagra made from ground-up beetles. Is there a notation for a hazardous chemical storage?”

Clem checked the list and nodded; Sara relaxed a little. “Good. That stuff was . . . well it was seriously dangerous.” She finished quickly. The girl shot her a disbelieving look and Sara grinned widely. “Clem, I’m not kidding here. Grissom and I went to go see this beetle expert who verified that the cantharid in this stuff was fatally potent. In fact, Grissom . . .” Sara stopped, her face red as memories of return drive from Dr. Matt Clowderbock’s bunker came back in full sensual force, from the strangled way Grissom had asked for his jacket, to the . . . ooohhhhhh.

Memories.

Clem arched an eyebrow at her, and Sara rushed on, turning her face to the evidence carton, clearing her throat. “Uh, Grissom insisted the stuff be categorized as a biohazard. So, yeah, where were we?”

Pointing a slender finger, Clem indicated the checklist, and Sara nodded, relieved to be back on task. She lifted out the evidence bags one by one, setting them on the table.

“One ashtray.”

Clem nodded.

“One cigarette butt.”

Clem nodded. 

“One pin back—OW.” Sara jumped a little; the sharp point had poked through the corner of the evidence bag and into her latex-covered finger. She yanked her hand away, but not before a few glittering particles of green spilled out. Sara cursed and began to peel her glove off, the tiny bead of blood welling on the pad of her index finger. Instinctively she stuck it into her mouth, then froze.

Not good.

Swiftly she pulled her digit out as Clem leaned over to help. Sara shook her head.

“Have to wash this off PRONTO, don’t move I’ll be right back, Jesus . . .” Sara scurried out the door, her long frame slipping out and down the hall in a swift lunge of movement. Clem twitched, torn between following, and staying as ordered. To take her mind off her worry, she picked up the evidence bag that Sara had dropped back on the table, examining it closely. Several more flakes of glitter spilled out, unseen, drifting down and landing in the crease of her palm as she turned the bag, trying to read the label. 

With a sigh, Clem set it down again and glanced into the evidence box, checking the other items there carefully. She couldn’t sign off on the inventory; that would have to wait for Sara’s return. 

After a few minutes, she heard footsteps; Grissom looked around the corner at her, smiling briefly. “Dinner break. Come on out and I’ll lock the door so you can leave it as is. Where’s Sara?”

Clem mimed washing her hands as she stepped out of the room. Grissom nodded, and flipped the light switches off, locking the room with a key from the ring in his hand.

“Okay. Back in an hour then.” He headed off down the hall towards the bathrooms as Clem sighed, and began to think about the brown bag with her name on it in the break room.

In the women’s bathroom, Sara scrubbed with steaming water, running her fingers under the stream and pursing her mouth tightly. She couldn’t see anything in the water, and her fear gradually abated as she rinsed her hands. She dried them on a paper towel and yanked open the bathroom door only to find Grissom standing there.

“Waffles.” He intoned lightly.

Sara blinked, and came back to planet Earth, pulling up a soft grin. “Waffles.”

They drove the six blocks; Sara debated with herself over mentioning her near miss to Grissom. He’d be concerned, she knew, but she felt fine and didn’t want to panic him. By the time they’d been seated and were looking over the menu, Sara was far more focused on the merits of strawberry versus blackberry pancakes, and Grissom was mulling over omelets. They sat facing each other in a high-backed booth near the back of the restaurant, and the entrancing smells of batter drifted all around them.

“Marge and Stanley Yorinks of Youngstown Ohio established this place in 1956. The first Waffle World started as a diner, catering to the swing and night shift crews for the casinos.” 

He read aloud from the back of the laminated menu. Sara looked over at him, and encouraged, Grissom read on. “Waffle World made it into the Guinness Book of World Records with the Largest Waffle in the United States in 1974. I’m sorry I missed that.”

“How large was it?” Sara demanded, flipping her own menu over to check the statistics. Grissom pointed to the paragraph he’d been reading and she blinked. “Whoa! Six feet across? That would be like a one of those round bed mattresses. Where did they get the iron?”

“My theory? Probably a few of those steam press beds that dry cleaners use for curtains,” Grissom ventured. Sara looked at him, pointedly and he smirked like a little boy with a secret. 

“Let me guess—you went through a phase were you experimented with an iron.”

“Best grilled cheese sandwiches I ever had,” he sighed. “Although the fabric sizing made the bread a little stiff.”

“Grissom!” Sara laughed. She sighed a moment later and shot him a guilty look; he waited until she spoke again. “Speaking of stiff . . . guess what case Clem and I were just checking on before dinner break?”

He actually thought about it, and Sara watched as his glance flickered over the vinyl tablecloth. Finally he looked up. “The Ralton case?”

“Nope. The Yuan brothers.” At that, Grissom’s eyes widened, and the swift flush across his face made her laugh warmly. “Yeah, I figured you’d remember that one.”

“Sara, that case was the very definition of the term ‘catalyst’. Yes, I remember it . . . well.” He breathed, locking eyes with hers, his face surprisingly grave. “Considering it involved one of the most potent biochemical compounds ever extracted from natural sources.”

“Beetle juice. Or powder, if you want to get picky,” Sara murmured, feeling warm at the memory. “Ultra Viagra. Super Cialis.”

“Levitra of Death,” Grissom grumbled, wincing at the memory. Sara gave a little chuckle so weak that he glanced over at her and froze when he saw her sickly expression. “Saaaaraaaa . . . the beetle that was confiscated in that case IS in the Biohazards locker, right?”

Sara opened her mouth to speak, but at that point the short little waitress came over and flashed a tired smile at the both of them as she scooped up their menus, then pulled out her order pad.

“Hey, hey! Y’all got a hankering for our special tonight? Strawberry waffles with whipped cream with a side of bacon and your choice of juice or coffee?”

“Ohh, I’ll take that, but without the bacon, thanks, and orange juice.” Sara told her, keeping her gaze from Grissom’s probing one.

“Make mine the same but with the bacon please.” He rumbled, not breaking his stare. The waitress scribbled the order down and shuffled off, leaving the two of them looking at each other.

Sara coughed artificially.“The beetle wasn’t in the box, so I assume it’s still locked up in the Biohazards vault; howeverrrrr . . . “ she trailed off and held up her index finger, then continued in a rush. “The pin backing it was on was there and someone who wasn’t paying careful attention jabbed herself with it.”

Grissom said nothing, but his mouth twitched the tiniest bit. Sara flexed her finger experimentally as the quiet sounds of clinking silverware and faint muzak echoed around them. Then he sighed. 

Sara gave a twisted smile. “I washed as quickly as I could, but Grissom, the chances of anything contaminating the pin back are VERY small, and anyway, the powder might not have any effect on female physiology, right? So there’s nothing to worry about. Hardly. Anything. Grissom?”

He rubbed his eyes. “Sara, don’t talk anymore, all right? Over a leisurely dinner of waffles and juice you decide to tell me about your exposure to a concentrated, unregulated, possibly LETHAL aphrodisiac, and then attempt to laugh it off. I’m still trying to process what part of this is supposed to be amusing.”

“Oh come ON, lighten up. It’s been longer than fifteen minutes and I’m fine. Nothing’s happening to me except I’m hungry. I feel normal.” Sara grumbled, regretting her choice to tell him.

Grissom drew in a sigh and slowly unfolded his napkin, setting it into his lap. “I felt normal too. And then it was like someone dropped a hand grenade in my boxers.”

Sara had been sipping her water; it sprayed across the table at his remark, and Grissom turned an annoyed look at her. Quickly she dabbed her dripping face in her own napkin wiping water and chortled. “A hand grenade?”

“How best to describe it? A massive influx of libido all within a concentrated space/time continuum, Sara. As if every ounce of my testosterone was suddenly locked in on my genitalia. Do or Die. Quite possibly Do UNTIL you Die. It was a unique . . . experience.” He shuddered very lightly. Sara fought her laugh, remembering the terror as well as the lust on that night. It was the first time she’d seen Grissom completely at odds with himself, and dependent on . . . a helping hand. That did it, and a tiny snort leaked out of her.

“Not funny, Sara.”

“Actually, it was. In hindsight.”

At that moment the waitress reappeared and set the orders down, and the fragrant scent of waffles filled the booth. Sara inhaled and smiled. She dipped a finger into the fluffy whipped cream piled high on her plate, feeling the cool cream of it, so sinfully sweet, so luscious and enticing and ooh wouldn’t it be wonderful to lick it off of Grissom’s tummy in long hot strokes. Deep strokes. Deep thrusting, hot strokes---

Just at the supernova of lust flared hot and deep between her thighs, she looked up, and Grissom, fork halfway to his mouth, caught her expression. “Sara?”

“Wwwwwwwantyou,” she squeaked.

*** *** ***

Clem took her brown bag and peeked left, then right and finally stepped out to the little waiting area just around the corner from the morgue. It was out of the way, and few people remembered it was there; just a secluded spot where Robbins and occasionally David would talk to the bereaved, or let them sit and collect themselves before or after identifying a loved one. The loveseat was tan naugahyde, but not as sprung or stained as the ones in the lobby or the break room. Clem liked the peace and quiet. It was a good place to be a lone in a lab full of glass walls and gossip.

She pulled out her crunchy peanut butter and bacon sandwich with a little sigh, counting down the minutes in her head. As she reached the three she looked up, and Greg was already there, in a blue smock, one arm braced against the wall, looking at her. She looked back at him, and gradually smiled. Relaxing, Greg dropped his lanky form onto the loveseat next to her and studied the bag she held with earnest puppy eyes. “Got another one?”

She nodded, and fished in the brown paper, pulling out a second sandwich and handing it over. Greg unwrapped it eagerly, sniffing it as if it were a Cuban cigar, which made Clem giggle silently.

“I’ve grown to appreciate the creative potential of the humble sandwich so much more since eating lunch with you. All those school years of plain bologna or salami or peanut butter, wasted.” He mumbled through a mouthful. Greg fished into the smock pocket and pulled out a cold soda for her, then into the pocket on the other side and retrieved one for himself. Clem opened hers and set it on the arm of the sofa as Greg spoke up again.

“I mean, just dig all those different combinations you make! Peanut butter and sweet onion, peanut butter and banana, peanut butter and toasted sunflower seeds, cream cheese and sliced olives, cream cheese and brown sugar, salami, cheese and crushed potato chips, “ he rattled off dreamily, “I’m telling you Clementine, you’ve opened my eyes and cupboards to things I’ve never dreamed of before.”

She rolled her eyes and reached for her message board, scribbling a message very quickly. //I notice you’re not actually MAKING any of them, just eating the ones I bring.//

“Yeah well, I’m not always skilled in matters culinary, and while I appreciate your genius, my mom’s strictly an Old School sandwich maker.” Greg admitted. “In her mind, peanut butter is betrothed to jelly now and forevermore.”

//While the peanut butter in MY cupboard is some kind of flava player, into hooking up with as many complimentary partners as possible, huh?//

“It appears so.” Greg agreed, taking the board from her and setting it down. Clem shook her head and shifted a little, feeling warm all of a sudden. She looked down at her sandwich and found she’d been gripping it tightly, mashing it almost. 

Greg shifted too, and looked at her. “Clem . . .” he began, his tone deeper and unsteady, “I wasn’t kidding about you being, you know, hot. And I can understand you not wanting to get involved with me because of working together and my having a kid and all, but you need to know I was serious about what I said. I don’t care if you’re black, or mute, or ride a unicycle and worship a chicken with a sunburst on its chest, okay? You’re pretty amazing, and I waMMmmmmmgh!” 

Clem had pounced, her surprise attack knocking Greg back on the loveseat, their sandwiches flying. Clem kissed him, the full-court press of her generous mouth on his, tasting of peanut butter and crazed girl; a combination Greg dizzily found highly tasty. He gave in and kissed her back, sending thanks to whatever Fates had thrown her at him. It was only when she pulled away, horrified and hot-eyed that he drew in a breath.

“Okaaay, I think we’ve made a breakthrough here,” He squeaked, and cleared his throat. “Ah, Clem?”

She shook her head even as her hands slipped around the back of his neck and she sprawled out on top of him, knocking the sodas over in a wet clunk of heavy cans. Greg struggled for a nanoscecond, but the minute her mouth came back down on his he gave up the fight and prepared for the battle.

*** *** ***

“Sara . . .” Grissom didn’t quite panic, but his nostrils flared and his eyes widened. Across from him, Sara looked as if she wanted to leap over the tabletop and tackle him to the ground, and it bothered Grissom at how much that image excited him. He leaned over his plate and pinned her hands flat on the vinyl tablecloth, staring into her face. “How do you feel?”

“I’m having a problem here, big, big problem. Want you preeetttttty badly now, Grissom.”   
Sara growled, shifting in her seat as the itch she couldn’t scratch got much worse. The feel of his big hands on top of hers didn’t help a bit, either. That strength and heat seeping through, ooh yes, if he’d use them to grab her, TAKE her—

“Focus, honey, focus! Okay, first things first. We’ll have to get you to Desert Palms right away. I’m going to let go of your hands Sara. You have to promise to behave while I call.”

“Try.” She blurted, licking her lips in a slow, lascivious way that made him shiver a little himself. He let go of her left hand and reached for his cell phone. Sara’s fingers slid over to the hand pinning her right one down and toyed with it. Grissom found the hair on the back of his neck going up at her teasing touch. Sara bit her lip. “Don’t WANT to go to the hospital, Grissom. Can’t we just . . . you know, like before?”

“This is DIFFERENT,” Grissom hissed, trying to keep his voice low as other diners began looking over at them. He cleared his throat as Sara’s nails began to lightly rake over the back of his hand. “In the first place, we are at Waffle World, Sara. It’s not as if we can just slide under the table and oooof--!” he blurted as Sara’s stockinged foot slid up his shin and over the inside of his knee. His eyes widened, and Sara smiled at him as she picked up his hand. Gently, she flexed it up as if he was going to give her a high five, and kissed the pad of his index finger, her lips warm on them.

Grissom squirmed. Sara moved to his middle finger, licking it slightly, her voice a low drone of heat between kisses. “I want you, I want you SO much right now, I’ll do anything to GET you Grissom, I need you, need you RIGHT now—“

When she slid her wet mouth onto his finger he gasped, dropping his arm into his waffles and upsetting the syrup pitcher. Sara laughed as Grissom tried to mop up the mess; she scooped up another blob of whipped cream and sucked it off her fingers in a slow raunchy imitation of something far more intimate. Sweating now, Grissom dug for his wallet and tossed down a ten dollar bill, then caught Sara’s elbow and tugged her out of the booth, hustling her out of the diner with so much speed that it wasn’t until a few hours later that the busboy found one of her shoes under the table.

They moved through the foyer, but a few steps from the glass doors, Sara resisted, coming to a stop; Grissom swung around her, and taking the initiative, Sara slipped her arms around his neck, steering him into a little alcove of wall phones near the front door. She yanked him down into a kiss, and for a long moment Grissom simply gave in to the hot urge between them, the sweet hunger of Sara’s kiss. She broke off and sighed harshly after a moment and he could see the sweat on her forehead.

“Sara?”

“Want you, I need, I need . . .” she tried to speak, but her voice was a low croak. Grissom pursed his mouth and finished her thought.

“You need release, honey. Big time. All right, let’s figure this out,” he sighed. “To the car.”

They headed out to the Denali, and Grissom noted they’d parked between a wood slat fence and a recycling dumpster, thus blocking most of the vehicle from view. He grimly considered the situation as Sara clung to him like a limpet, her hands already sliding up and over his upper body as the two of them lurched across the parking lot.

 

A passing tourist stared; Grissom managed a concerned expression as he muttered, “Low blood sugar.” The man nodded and passed by quickly. Sara leaned up to nip Grissom’s ear.

 

“Where I’m touching I can feel some high blood pressure--”

 

“Thank you, Doctor Sidle-- come on,” he growled to cover his concern, and they reached the car. Grissom fumbled for his keys and unlocked the passenger side door as Sara rubbed against him in a slow grind that Catherine would have recognized. He climbed in, reached for Sara, yanked her onto his lap and slammed the door swiftly.

 

“Oooh yes, lemme get the release--” Sara panted, reaching down and pulling the lever on the side of the seat. It dropped back under the two of them and she laughed into Grissom’s slightly startled, slightly grim face. “Now for the OTHER release--”

“Sara--”

 

“Shut up, darling. I know exactly what I need, so just . . .” she slithered, tugged, struggled and moaned, “Co-operate with me, Grissom. Oh yeah, OOHHH yeah, definitely excited here--”she chortled, her hand wrapping around the thickness of his cock jutting out of his slacks. Grissom bit his lip, fighting a pleasured groan as Sara stroked him with squeezy perfection. She tugged her slacks off with her free hand, and yanked one leghole of her panties over, then plunged herself onto him.

 

The dripping heat of her shocked him, and Grissom nearly howled, but Sara dropped a hand over his mouth. He looked up through his haze of red lust to see her face, wild, with those big mahogany eyes glittering in the faint light of the parking lot. The cords of her slender neck stood out as she held onto the handle over the side window.

“Make me come . . .” just a desperate croaky little whisper, but Grissom growled against her palm at the sound of it. He reached one hand behind her hips and gripped her ass, then slid the other one between their bodies. It was hard to focus; the deep pleasure of Sara riding him was taking him hard and fast to the edge of his control, but he laid his palm flat on her rocking belly and let his thumb burrow through her wet fur to flick gently against her swollen little bud.

Sara mewled, throwing her head back and nearly hitting the roof of the car as she did so. Grissom fought his own impending orgasm, clenching his ass and keeping his strokes against Sara’s pearl as light and gentle as he could. For a few seconds the only sounds in the car were the squeaks and thumps and friction of cloth, and then-- 

“OoOoOoOoOOOOOGAAAAWWWWD!” followed by a series of hard bounces that rocked the Denali hard enough to severely test the parking brake. 

Two tourists stopped and glanced over at the car, then at the diner.

“That’s it, I am DEFINITELY in the mood for waffles,” the round little woman with the ‘I got clubbed at the Tangiers’ button announced. Her companion nodded, slightly wary as they hurried away from the Denali.

“Oh yeah, sounds like they had the Waffle World special all right.”

 

*** *** ***

Clem woke up to bright lights and a voice asking how she was. She licked her dry lips and gave a shrug, blinking as she tried to look around. Little bleeps and the distant sound of a paging system meant a hospital. She struggled to sit up.

“Hey, hey-- no moving, Short Stuff. You already did a lot of that and look where it got you,” came a familiar voice. She looked over and Greg sat in a chair, gaze on her, a crooked little smile on his mouth. She raised her eyebrows at him, and a hot blush crossed her face in one wave of embarrassment. 

He nodded gently. “You know, when most people say ‘have a good time, knock yourself out’ they don’t mean it literally Clem. I mean there we were, makin’ out, kissing in ways I WILL be remembering into my Norwegian old age, working with a pretty good Princeton Rub. Then, right when I see you’re most definitely in the moment as they say, you shift and over we go, BOOM on the floor. Knocked out cold, at least you were.”

Clem reached up and felt the back of her head, to where the rising lump bore mute testimony to Greg’s narrative.

He nodded and sighed, continuing. “So I try to revive you, but we’re both covered with spilled soda and mashed sandwiches and let’s face it, I can’t go sauntering down the hall sporting the other condition I’m in, not that it lasted long after seeing you knocked out, so I called 911 and here we are.”

Her eyes widened, and she covered her face with her hands.

Greg chuckled softly. “Come on it’s not that bad--I got to talk to your mom.” He shifted off the stool he was sitting on and came over, leaning down until his face was only a few inches from hers, his glance suddenly pale and soulful. “Don’t you ever scare me again like that, okay? Impulsive is one thing, but I have this weird desire to do things RIGHT this time around. So no more jumping me at work, Clem. Even if you do have the sweetest mouth I’ve ever kissed.”

She rubbed her forehead, nodding and reaching her free hand towards his chin. He handed her the whiteboard and she scribbled on it quickly.

//Greg, I didn’t mean to-- it just sort of hit me all at once, and I don’t know--I just//

He took the board and wiped it clean, sighing. Gently, he bent down once more to plant a soft kiss on her forehead.

“It’s okay. Slow, remember? Get some sleep and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Clem nodded and watched him leave, feeling a low sense of melancholy before dropping off to sleep again.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> I've always loved the idea of Grissom having a tree house. The beetle in question was from the story 'Blistered Libido' which I'll post eventually.


End file.
